Morris (3) [When Morris Imposternak fell in love] Poem by Eugene Ostashevsky

3.
When Morris Imposternak fell in love
The woman he loved didn't love him in return

And so he picked up a violin and said:
You, violin, respond to my application

Because as an inanimate object you have no choice
Play to me, violin, of the amaritude we both know

You, because you are not alive
I, because I am not loved

We are alike, you and I
We can't change the world we can only make noise

The violin played
That is, its strings pushed the air to and fro

As Morris Imposternak remembered how he made love
To the woman who did not love him

Even as matters stood, the look of her eyes had made him forget himself
That is, forget he was Morris Imposternak

The violin played
Outside, buildings crowded together

And passersby passed whose figures resembled figures such as the Russian Л
All life is real life, the violin played

And the amaritude of Morris Imposternak
Became set to music

Blessed are those who love
There are so few of them, almost everybody

Blessed are those who are loved
There are so few of them, almost everybody

How sad there is no one-to-one correspondence
Between these two sets