Vladimir Mayakovsky — O his own beloved self the author dedicates these lines

Six.

Ponderous. The chimes of a clock.

"Render unto Ceasar... render unto God..."

But where's

someone like me to dock?

Where to find waiting - a lair?

Were I

like the ocean of ocean little,

on the tiptoes of waves I'd rise,

I'd strain, a tide, to caress the moon.

Where to find someone to love

of my size,

the sky too small for her to fit in?

Were I poor

as a multimillionaire,

it'd still be tough.

What's money for the soul? –

Theif insatiable.

The gold

of all Californias isn't enough

for my desires' riotous horde.

I wish I were tongue-tied,

like Dante

or Petrarch,

able to fire a woman's heart,

reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages!

My words

and my love

form a triumphal arch:

through it in all their splendour,

leaving no trace,will pass

the inamoratas of all the ages.

Were I

As quiet as thunder,

how I'd wail and whine!

One groan of mine

would start world's crumbling cloister shivering.

And if

I'd end up by roaring

with all of its power of lungs and more -

the comets, distressed, would wring their hands

and from the sky's roof leap in fever.

If I were dim as the sun,

night I'd drill

with the rays of my eyes,

and also

all by my lonesome,

radiant self

build up the earth's shivering bosom.

On I'll pass,

dragging my huge love behind me.

On what feverish night, deliria-ridden,

by what Goliaths was I begot –

I, so big

and so no one needen?