«Непредсказуемый» Бродский (из цикла «Laterna Magica»). Ася Пекуровская

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      I have braved, for want of wild beasts, steel cages,

      carved my term and nickname on bunks and rafters,

      lived by the sea, flashed aces in the oasis,

      dined with the devil-knows-whom, in tails, on truffles.

      From the height of a glacier I beheld half a world, the earthly

      width. Twice have drowned, trice let knives rake my nitty-gritty,

      Quit the country, that bore and nursed me.

      Those who forgot me would make a city.

      I have waded the steppes and saw yelling Huns in saddles,

      worn the clothes nowadays back in fashion in every quarter,

      planted rye, tarred the roofs of pigsties and stables,

      guzzled everything save dry water.

      I’ve admitted the sentries’ third eye into my wet and foul

      dreams. Munched the bread of exile; it’s stale and warty.

      Granted my lungs all sounds except the howl;

      switched to a whisper. Now I am forty.

      What should I say about my life?

      That it’s long and abhors transparence.

      Broken eggs make me grieve; the omelette,

      though, make me vomit.

      Yet until brown clay has been rammed down my larynx,

      only gratitude will be gushing from it.