The Griffin

The showers, the cold, the sun at its zenith -
the Griffin sits on a gray granite.
And people believe in the old tradition.,
That he fulfills any desires.

And the griffins forehead is burning with inflammation,
After all, people come to pet the griffin.

Tourists and guides come,
Drivers and pedestrians are coming,
Artists, poets, athletes come.,
Doctors, cooks, and businessmen come.…
Students come, old ladies come
And they stroke and stroke him on the top of his head,
And they ask, and they ask,
Someone wants happiness, someone wants money…

He should have fallen off the granite steps!
And dive into the water with your tired head
To the loud screams of the astonished crowd!

And there will only be fish in the cool Neva.
Run your tails over his head…
There is no greed or passion in the glass eyes.
They dont need money, they dont need happiness.

And the griffin will be cooling off at the bottom.,
Exposing his forehead not to hands, but to a wave…

..And he will ask for one thing: "Lift up!
I want to be on the gray granite!
Where is the smoke and heat of the city
And warm human hands..."