Your thought,
musing on a sodden brain
like a bloated lackey on a greasy couch,
I’ll taunt with a bloody morsel of heart
and satiate my insolent, caustic contempt.

No gray hairs streak my soul,
no grandfatherly fondness there!
I shake the world with the might of my voice,
and walk—handsome,

Tender souls!
You play your love on a fiddle,
and the crude club their love on a drum.
But you cannot turn yourselves inside out,
like me, and be just bare lips!

Come and be lessoned—
prim officiates of the angelic league,
lisping in drawing-room cambric.

You, too, who leaf your lips like a cook
turns the pages of a cookery book.

If you wish,
I shall rage on raw meat;
or, as the sky changes its hue,
if you wish,
I shall grow irreproachably tender:
not a man, but a cloud in trousers!

A Cloud in Trousers (excerpt), Vladimir Mayakovsky, trans. George Reavey (via mayakovsky)
I have a bird of paradise.
At dawn upon a cypress tree
She sits alone against the skies,
But sings no more by day to me.
Her back is of celestial blue,
Her head deep purple, and upon
Her wings the dust of golden hue
Reflects the brightness of the dawn.
But when the earth is slumbering
And evening mists begin to roll,
She rises on her bough to sing
So sweetly, sweetly to my soul,
That soon the burden of my pain
I fain forget before her lay,
And in my heart each tender strain
Comes as a faithful friend to stay.
Often her song so dear to me
I have in stormy weather heard:
Always of hope her song to me,
The song of my celestial bird.
Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841) - Hope (via eternalsages)