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Poetry: Show Me Your Breasts

SHOW ME YOUR BREASTS

By Niels Hav

 

When I am hungry I think of your breasts

- which I never got to see -

and your passing Russian glance,

while you passive and restless look around the room

like one of the three melancholy sisters in Chekhov

who drink tea all the time while they talk

of moving to Moscow.

 

Oh, let us dance together tonight

in a nightclub in Moscow.

 

Life has become so complex.

And you even play the piano and live with a view

of a cemetery, where the winter sun stands

speculating all afternoon

between the gravestones.

 

Oh, let us dance together tonight

in a nightclub in Moscow.

 

When I am hungry I think of your breasts

your Russian mouth, the yellow light in your kitchen

- which I also never got to see -

and your lifelike wrist when you cut

slices of bread and slowly eat, standing,

looking out over the cemetery absentmindedly

listening to a wild symphony by Rachmaninov.

 

Oh, let us dance together tonight

in a nightclub in Moscow.

 

But hesitating is wasting time: I want

to see your breasts! Chekhov drank champagne

on his deathbed and Rachmaninov died in the USA.

The black hole awaits us all. So come

just as you are, let’s go to Moscow!

Oh, I want to dance with you tonight

in a nightclub in Moscow.

 

Translated by P. K. Brask & Patrick Friesen

All Rights Reserved to Niels Hav

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