Is it possible that we are so twisted
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
there is no salvation for any of us,
and that ideas have become wingless
in an age of winged rockets?
Is it possible that a crippled birch,
bending over to the last river,
will see the last man
in its boiling water?
Is it possible there’ll be no Big Ben,
Saint Basil’s, or Notre Dame
and that neutron foam will gush
over our final steps?
But that planet, cherry trees,
birds, and children will perish,
I don’t believe. This disbelief
is my final faith.
Skull after skull will not
be piled up in towers again.
The final Nuremberg approaches us
before, not after the war.
And the last soldier on earth
will throw his shoulder strap in a stream,
and watch how peacefully
dragonflies sit on it.
All rascality will end.
All people will understand-we are a family.
The last government
will abolish itself.
The last exploiter,
opening his toothless mouth,
will gobble the last money
furtively like a delicacy.
The last cowardly editor
will be doomed forever
to read from the stage in sequence
everything that he destroyed.
So that the last bureaucrat
can rest and be silent,
his gullet will be stuffed in payment
with the last rubber stamp.
And the earth will turn
without fear of the last years,
there never will be born
the last great poet.