Pain gnaws into man, <br />lacerating with its claws. <br />It’s deposited like salt <br />somewhere between the vertebrae. <br /> <br />Shout something to the crowd? <br />That’s a lot of respect for cattle. <br />Confess to a priest? <br />Man doesn’t believe in God. <br /> <br />Confess to the wife? <br />A pain inscrutable for her. <br />Confess to the country? <br />That’s so immense it terrifies. <br /> <br />And the psychiatrist arrives <br />with a musketeer beard, <br />warmly phlegmatic, <br />faintly smelling of vodka. <br /> <br />And though you tear your hair- <br />he will listen for two hours <br />to your woes and vexations, <br />and all for two bills. <br /> <br />Afterward he goes on foot <br />through grimy lanes, <br />and under his tongue lays <br />a tranquilizer. <br /> <br />There’s a trick to attentiveness: <br />not the least merit in it, <br />and he himself longs for a fellow <br />psychiatrist-a friend for hire. <br /> <br /> <br />1978 <br />Translated by Albert C. Todd<br /><br />Yevgeny Yevtushenko<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/psychotherapy-2/
