This girl comes from New York
by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
but she does not belong.
Along the neon lights, this girl
runs away from herself.
To this girl the world seems odious-
a moralist who’s been howled down.
It holds no more truths for her.
Now the 'twist' alone is true.
With hair mussed and wild,
in spectacles and a coarse sweater,
on spiked heels she dances
the thinnest of negations.
Everything strikes her as false,
everything-from the Bible to the press.
The Montagues exist, and the Capulets,
but there are no Romeos and Juliets.
The trees stoop broodingly,
and rather drunkenly the moon
staggers like a beatnik sulking
along the milky avenue.
Wanders, as if from bar to bar,
wrapped in thought, unsocial,
and the city spreads underneath
in all its hard-hearted beauty.
All things look hard-the roofs and walls,
and it’s no accident that, over the city,
the television antennae rise
like crucifixions without Christ.
Translated by George Reavey