Единственный стих, кажется, написанный не по-русски:
Alex Guinzburg is dead. O, what a trivial news!
Whether we know not that we all are to be dead?
At due time, surely, but isn't any moment due and overdue – judging straight?
Every time we lose touch with this plain truth
somebody dies to remind us,
to straighten our thoughts, wily thoughts...
"Lukaviye" would be better, hinting at some curvy bystreet.
(And, by the way, why these babble is not in Russian,
my and your, and Ginzburg's native parlance?
To cheat ourselves, perhaps, but the trick is surely vain…)
Alex Guinzburg is dead, and he is not the first in this train as well as, you know, not the last one.
Friends, countrymen, lend me your ears!
Alex is dead and a live part of our life recedes with him.
And I do not know even whether our beyonds be the same.