In my life I was handsome and slender,
not afraid of a word or a bullet,
for the usual framework unfit,
but since I was deceased they have bent me,
they have chromed me all over and bullied,
nailing me to the base by the heel.

Now I cannot shake off meaty granite,
my Achilles’ heel’s stuck as of present
in the pedestal column of mine,
and the iron ribcage of the carcass
is constrained by a layer of cement,
causing cramps to traverse down my spine.

By my stature I long was respected:
Try to measure!
I knew not that I would be subjected
when I perish.

But I’m put in the usual framework, -
’twas a challenge!
And my daunting, uneven dimensions
now are straightened.

When I died, in the frantic commotion
a posthumous mask was fast sculptured
by my overly diligent kin.
I don’t know who provided this notion,
but they quickly shaved off from the plaster
oriental profiles of my cheeks.

Never thought nor I dreamed of this minute,
not suspecting that I was in danger
to become a byword for the past,
but the graveyard monotony lingers
on my toothless smile frozen in anger,
on my shiny posthumous cast.

In my life I tried not to displeasure
those who’re scary,
and all those who approached with a measure
felt quite wary,

but the clay for my mask at postmortem
was extruded;
a mortician approached me quite promptly
with a cubit.

A while later, with crowds in attendance,
as the high point of my mending and tweaking,
as if trying to right all mistakes,
my well-molded and durable statue
was unveiled to the vigorous singing,
to my voice from the magnetized tapes.

High above me the silence was broken
by the speakers that roared and bellowed;
from the roofs a strong light shone at once,
and my utterly desperate vocals
were transformed to a pleasant falsetto
by the technical marvels of science.

I was numb, I was wrapped in a cover.
That was lethal!
At the same I still screamed like a castrate
to all people.

Then the shroud was removed. Oh, they had me,
Try to measure!
Is this how you imagine my stature
once I perished?

The commander’s footsteps sounded angry.
And recalling the past I then pondered:
"Should I walk down the towering slabs?"
And the panicked crowds fled to the alleys
when I tore out my foot with a grumble,
and the rubble run down in cascades.

Tilting hard I looked naked and ugly,
and I busted my gut, but I reached them
by extending my ironclad five.
When at last to the pavement I tumbled,
from the crippled and battered loudspeakers
I rasped out: "Well, it seems I’m alive!"

The collapse easily broke me and bent me,
left unsettled,
but my cheekbones stick out, disobeying,
from the metal!

I could not do the way it was scripted,
on the quiet.
I, in contrast, walked off indiscreetly
from the granite.