24 April 1967
are no men who lack interest.
Their destinies are like the histories of the planets.
Each one is unique, alone, on his own,
No one else alike exists.
And when someone has dwelled in silence,
Happily in his nook,
His own meaninglessness
To him confers interest.
Each one has a secret world, his own,
Where the best moments are hidden,
Where the most terrible hour hides.
But we do not know anything.
And if a man dies,
His snowed spring also disappears,
And the first kiss, and the first fight...
Everything goes with him.
Yes, there are books and bridges left,
Machines and painter's canvases,
Yes, many things have to remain,
But there is something that escapes.
This is the rule of the pitiless game.
Worlds disappear, not people.
Humans, wordly sinners, we remember,
But, in fact, what did we know about them?
-Ievgueni Aleksandrovitch Ievtuchenko-