what's so special about *your* fate,
that you fall over, lapping up vodka,
and still give yourself such airs?
So who, in hell's name, are you,
when, like absolute riff-raff
glinting with plastic ear-clips,
you've started playing the Golden Girl?
So who, in hell's name, are you,
acting the slave to dubious praise,
you coward, stopping up the mouths
of those who still had any faith in you?
So who, in hell's name, are you,
and who, in hell's name, am I,
that I can howl, reproaching you,
Still bound to you with chains of longing?
Yevgeny Yevtushenko