vladimir mayakovsky

shot himself on this day 80 years ago

Kindness to Horses


Hooves stomped,

singing as they trod:

--Grip.

Grab.

Rob.

Grub.

Wind-fostered,

ice-shod,

the street skidded.

A horse toppled

Onto its side,

and immediately,

the loafers gathered,

as crowds of trousers assembled up close

on the Kuznetsky,

and laughter snickered and spluttered.

--“A horse tumbled!”

--“It tumbled -- that horse!”

The Kuznetsky cackled,

and only I

did not mix my voice with the hooting.

I came up

and looked straight into

the horse’s eye...

The street, up-turned,

continued moving.

I came up and saw

tears, -- huge and passionate,

rolling down her face,

vanishing in her coat...

and some kind of a universal,

animal anguish

spilled out of me

and continued to flow.

“Horse, no need for this!

Horse, listen,--

look at them, - do you think that you have it worse?

Child,

we are all, to some extent, horses,--

everyone here is a bit of a horse.”

Perhaps

she was old

and didn’t want to be nursed,

or maybe, she took in my speech with a scoff,

but

the horse

with a burst,

heaved to its feet,

and neighing,

walked off.

Wiggling its tail,

with its mane shining gold,

it returned to the stall,

happily gleaming,

and imagined once more

that it was a colt,

and work was worth doing

and life was worth living.

1918, trans Andrey Kneller