Fortuitous Poem by Isaac Babel

Benya,

If you were an idiot,
I would write to as to an idiot.
But I know you aren’t one,
And God help me not to change my mind.
You are acting, excuse me, like an amateur.
How can you not know
How helplessly
We are sitting on our surplus wheat
Because of the glut harvest in Argentina…
And I will tell you,
From the bottom of my heart,
That I’m fed up in my old age
Eating such a bitter piece of bread
And living through such hassles,
After working hard all my life
Like a simple horse-cart driver.
And what do I have to show
For all this hard labor?
Ulcers, pains, worries and
Not a wink of sleep.
Stop this nonsense, Benya

Your friend,
A far better one then you might think,

Rubim Tartakovsky