A herd is rushing down the street
With whoops and whistles, wild and fleet;
These “geniuses,” completely stoned,
Have caught a realist they’ve disowned.
“We’ll tear his arms and legs apart,
Damn his mother—blast his heart!
This half-baked classic dares to draw
So simply people see it raw!”
“We’ll rip him up, distort his face,
Twist off his head without a trace!”
They swarmed, they crushed—an angry fog…
But someone shouted: “Fear your God!
This isn’t Tretyakov for you—
It’s a synagogue you stumbled through!”
“You fools,” the wise old rabbi said,
“Should you tear the master shred from shred,
Then give at least a piece to me—
A tiny fragment, if it be.
The soap will soon grow cheap again—
Your ‘geniuses’ will choke, and then
Fools will grow scarce upon the earth,
Birds will return in wiser birth;
And when the times at last make sense,
A master will be needed hence.”