The Ivanovs

The bureaucratic trees stand,
Almost reaching into every house.
Their wandering is long over
They are behind bars and under locks.
The crowded boulevards roar
Pressed in tightly by houses.

But now all the doors are opening
A whisper travels all around:
The Ivanovs are headed for work
In their trousers and boots.
Smooth and empty trams
Offer them their benches.
The heroes get on, buy
Fragile chips of tickets,
Sit and hold them in front of themselves
Indifferent to the swift ride.

And there among stone walls,
The scream of horns, the noise of wheels,
Enchanting sirens stand
In tangles of orange hair.
Some others, dressed like bumpkins,
Can't keep themselves at home.
Clacking castanets,
They go along. Where should they go,
To whom offer their blood-red lips?
By whose bed kick off their shoes
And unsnap their blouses?
Or is there really nowhere to go?

O world, my leaden idol,
Beat in wide waves
And calm these girls
Upside-down at the crossroads!
The terrible world is sleeping today:
There is calm and peace in the houses.

Must I really find my place
Where my bride awaits me,
Where the chairs are arranged in a row,
Where the sideboard-like Ararat-
Has a thoroughly important air,
Where there is a table, and a three-story
Samovar in armor
Growls like a household general?

O world, turn into one quarter,
One broken pavement,
One foul barn,
One mouse hole,
But be ready to take up arms:
Ivanov is kissing a girl!