And yet – Vladimir Mayakovsky

The street fell through, like a syphilitic nose.
The river is voluptuousness, drooling.
Throwing away the laundry to the last leaf,
the gardens collapsed obscenely in June.
I went out to the square,
scorched quarter
put on my head, like a red wig.
People are scared - from my mouth
wiggling legs unchewed scream.
But I will not be judged, but they don't bark me,
like a prophet, flowers will cover my trail.
All these, sinking noses, know:
i am your poet.
Like a tavern, I am afraid of your last judgment!
Me alone through burning buildings
prostitutes, like a shrine, will carry
and show God in their defense.
And God will cry over my book!
Not words - convulsions, lumpy;
and will run across the sky with my poems under his arm
and will be, задыхаясь, read them to your friends.

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Anna Akhmatova