p I’m at the middle of the twentieth century.
I’ve seen a lot.
          But much I did not see.
I missed so many things around and in me,
I failed to see them in my soul and in the
                    world.

p Still, try to understand, here’s my confession:
I took a part in happenings tremendous
In human history.
          What must I do,
Man from the ranks, an offspring of the age?
Speak of our times. Unique. Unprecedented.
Speak of the giant towering above the world
And on his mighty shoulders hoisting
The burden of the planet’s life and fate.
How singular is life!
                    In people’s minds
Whole worlds go toppling, countries perish,
And nations follow paths outlined for them
In men’s nocturnal brooding thoughts,
And yet, you’re just a drop of water in the
                    ocean
Of history.
          But then this history’s in you.
You’re in it. And you’re answerable for it.
For everything—for victories, for glory,
For anguish, for mistakes, 258   259
                    and for the men
Who led you.
          For your flag, your emblem and your anthem.
I know I shrank from squarely facing things.
My weakness blinded me, my shyness dwarfed.
The vanity of living, the allure of earthly joys,
Of purely carnal warmth held me too fast.
But even if I’d had the keenest vision
There’s very little that I could have seen
I stumbled, fell, got back on to my feet,
And carried on.
          Alas, I am no prophet,
I’m just a poet who extols his times, his epoch,
That’s packed to bursting point, alive and vital,
A time of great import for all the world of men.
My epoch, I belong to you with all my being,
I’m yours until my dying thought, all yours!
And I am proud that I was with you always,
With you, my time, whose motive forces were
The Revolution, Lenin, and the People.
I live by them. They live in me. We are as one.
And as I write these lines today I seem to hear
The voices and I seem to see the thoughts
Of others, friends, the living and the dead.

p I’ve written everything the way I saw it,
The way I had imagined it, as best I could
It pains me now that I’ve left out so much,
But I would need ten lifetimes at the very least
To paint in words the richness of our life,
And that which we have brought into the world
In this mid-century to take the place of old.
There’s always something fabulous about the truth
And I, I see the fabulous in everything:
In nature, and in struggle, and in life itself.
And I am yours, my epoch, yours completely!

I hear the crunch of footsteps of the snow outside.
A man is walking past. How vigorous his stride!
How young! How red his cheeks, how bright his eyes!
He seems to scorn the cold, his coat’s so light.
He’s carrying a rolled-uji magazine.

p                     Hello!
Hello, our youth. Hello, our future. Wait for me! I’m here with you, I’m coining. See this book? I hold it out to him.
                    Here, take it, it’s for you.

Translated by Olga Shartse