Letter to Tatyana Yakovleva – Vladimir Mayakovsky

The kissing of hands whether,
you lost,
in body tremors
close to me
red
Colour
my republics
also
should
to blaze.
I do not like
Parisian love:
any female
decorate with silks,
stretching, I will fall asleep,
said -
tubo -
dogs
brutal passion.
You are the only one for me
growth on par,
stand by your side
with eyebrow eyebrow,
give
about this
important evening
tell
humanly.
Five hours,
and from now on
poem
people
dense pine,
measured
inhabited city,
I only hear
whistle dispute
trains to Barcelona.
In the black sky
lightning stride,
thunder
swear
in heavenly drama,-
not a thunderstorm,
and this
simply
jealousy moves mountains.
Silly words
don't trust raw materials,
not puhaysya
this shaking,-
I will bridle,
I will humble
feelings
offspring of the nobility.
Passion measles
will come off as a scab,
but joy
inextinguishable,
I will be long,
I'll just
I speak in poetry.
Jealousy,
wives,
tears ...
well them!-
milestones will swell,
fit Via.
I am not myself,
and I
jealous
for Soviet Russia.
Saw
on the shoulders of the patch,
them
thirst
licks sigh.
What,
we are not to blame -
one hundred million
was bad.
we
Now
to such tender -
sports
straighten not many,-
you and us
in Moscow need,
lacks
leggy.
Do not you,
in the snow
and in typhus
walking
with these feet,
here
of caresses
give them out
for dinner
with oilmen.
Don't you think,
squinting just
from under straightened arcs.
Go here,
go to the crossroads
my big
and clumsy hands.
Do not want?
Stay and winter,
and this
insult
into the total account.
I don't care
you
someday I'll take -
one
or together with Paris.

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Mikhail Lermontov