Marina Tsvetayeva

they blow themselves up with pettiness

as if they were swaying with drink

for such gentlemen what

is the sunset or the sunrise?

They swallow emptiness,

these readers of newspapers

Look, friends much

stronger than in these lines, do

I think this, when with

a manuscript in hand

I stand before the face

there is no emptier place

than before the absent

face of an editor of news

papers’ evil filth