We were the young gods of Olympus, oh boy!
We had fun, we reveled in joyful things,
Swaying ever so gently on the Saturn's rings,
Our fieldglasses focused on the walls of Troy.
There Achilles, big, sweaty, and seen from afar,
Read the last report to his tired hordes:
Zeus takes over as a political commissar;
And Hephaestos will issue your shields and swords.
And Ulysses, with not as much as a snuff,
Was fleeing westward – all the way to the West.
Rusty helmet of his, with an Achaean crest,
Will be filed by the Metropolitan staff.
DNA is gîne of the Aztec lord
And the tongue is dead of the Egyptian king,
But the seed of Greeks is all over the world:
Our tongue is alive, just hear it sing.
The Olympic gods, all too ready to fight
Over King of Sparta's kidnapped wife,
Faded and gone with the Trojan life.
Over Ithaca's three-millennial dust
Hear the bowstring, feel the soundwave,
See the shock wave, returning with the speed of light.
(èþíü 1995, Íîâûé Îðëåàí)