Not me, I left Russia, My girls walk around sniffling. Now I sow my seeds On foreign Elysian fields. Someone mumbled on the the streetcar in Presna: "Heís no more, finally they shut him up. Go let him write his weird songs over there About the Court of Versailles!" I hear from behind me an exchange of news: "Yes, not that one, that one left, just ask!" Ach, not that one, they say, and nudge with their elbows And sit on their knees in the taxi. But the one, with whom I sat in Magadan, My little friend still from the civil war He says, I should write, Vanya, Its boring, Vanya, come to me brother! And whyever would I ask to return, I debased myself, bustled, and begged. Nonsense, I wonít return, probably, Because I never left. Who would have believed that Iíd get a present, That thereíd be a happy ending, like in the movies, Take back your Arc díTriumph, Fly to the factories of Reno! I laugh, Iím dying of laughter, How can they believe these ravings? Donít worry, I didnít leave, And donít hope - I wonít go!
© Peter Struwwel. Translation, ?