IN MEMORY OF THE POET XENIA NEKRASOVA
I’ll never forget about Ksiusha,
who looked so like a ninny,
with her squinting eyes,
And how was she to blame?
lay in her pockmarks,
her squinting eyes,
and the unsightly dresses she wore…
What did she really want of us?
A kindly smile,
a glass of lemonade,
that we print her verse from time to time
and accept her, Ksiusha, as a writer…
In general, we gave her the lemonade,
but as for the kindly smile–
We even paid her an occasional small fee,
but we wouldn’t accept her as a writer,
because our moral guardians
she wasn’t normal.
who are so revoltingly normal,
are abnormal from birth.
How could you understand that Ksiusha
was full of courage
and pregnant with music?
Thus, our Ksiusha lay in her coffin.
She held her hands clasped on her belly,
as though she were gently protecting
an infant in it…
But as for you,
with what are you pregnant?
With music maybe?
Or merely with bones of contention?
Why do you brag of denying your bodies,
who are pregnant only with barrenness
You shall not be forgiven
on poor Ksiusha’s account.
You’ll have to pay
for Ksiusha’s soul.