It is funny to live at the bottom of well-sunken ancient quarter, To follow seagulls and sparrows and pigeons alike. To tremble from chilly breezes, to walk dusty sidewalks of burrows and bulks of sudden grass. Capote has liitle in common with folks of crowd; And yet, he is the first to give up aristocratic nookw worldwide. He is much more shaggy than Nabokov or Bunin are; though he is yet of arrogancy and posh and zest and vigor. I count for circumstances when outside at zigzags of subway lines. All is unified, of firm entity, of strict dependance. The diary of the city is comprised of out won destinies, if continuous lifestories. I judge by the subways of Moscow and Piter and Nizhny. But I ask attentive frienship in response for my promptness, as Capote once did. The revival of subways of Warsaw and Berlin is much more doomed. So Nabokov turned artificial and tedious, at places. It is not the matter of syntax or exquisite morphology. I never went more Western than the Alps; it is my weekness and my flaw. Vicious cities are less vulnerable. I tread my way through the familiar up paved strands, as I grow to nothingness. Europe is yet more than ever expected. It allows itself dawns and twilights. I drive myself out to final stations, half-built and half-'wooded'. It is this way all along. This layer is of storeys, though vast, irrespective of characters from beyond. Less is imposed to it; it is compelled only to the exuberant past. It is ever, ever this way. I wonder how Capote could have altered cities, if he was so much, drastically condemned to the avalanche of New York. Normally folks agree for less. Sat, I am exactly to what I beling to. Even if I out feign this general truth, my formula is distinct, my exaggeration is moderate. Moscow,2022.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem