I followed a poet who once came to view
The springtime bazaar of books old and new.

He wanted to see with his very own eye
His works filling readers with joy and surprise.

He reckoned his books were selling all right,
That everyone there cried out in delight.

The poet saw folk from near and afar –
For young 'uns and old 'uns attend the bazaar

Said one man attired in fine eastern array,
«I must buy a book of Khayyam's verse today!»

Another approached and his words rang out clear,
«Please give me those poems by Pushkin, my dear.»

The poet was shocked. He started to think,
«They want to hear toasts when wineglasses clink.

Oh dear! That young couple want love poems there,
About women's legs and old sins now laid bare!»

More book-lovers came and collectors that day.
The poet was stricken and cried in dismay,

«They crowd in this place now the sale has begun,
But as for my books, they haven't bought one!

Although they pay tribute to Pushkin each day
My verse is more modern. I write in a way

That's rhythmic and shows how much closer I nm
To young folk today than old Omar Khayyam.

I can't understand all these youngsters I see,
You'd think that they drank with Khayyam and not me!

Do they think that Pushkin's alive and I've died?
They've mixed it all up! They are crazy!» he cried.

The poor chap can't see that for all time ahead
Young hearts shall be hot and the grape shall be red.

1966