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Letter to Gran (Letter 2 бабуля)

I.
I feel like this world’s most unwanted man,
So I do a bit of writing: a letter to my Gran.
How are you up there? Is there any God?
Any funny stories you were lately told?

I need to tell you now how you got it right:
It’s usually my head that causes all the fights
That silly head of mine is a useless ploy
The universe is ganging up on poor Fozzey-boy.

Sometime in the last century you pulled me in a sleigh
You said to me: “Sonny, I can see a way
For you to be a good lad like I want you to.”
It’s only now I’ve understood: you’d given me a clue.

To be or not to be. Or maybe be the top.
But second best and the rest also get the plot.
To fight oneself like crazy day out and day in,
To score the winning points, whatever that may mean.

II.
Gran, what can you see up there? Is the sky deep blue?
What did it feel like, tell me, when amen was through?
What do the angels look like, when they smile or frown?
Probably, they can’t help laughing when they’re looking down.

The woodpigeons you fed still come, expecting bread.
Looking for fifth corner on the terrace where you sat.
Sometimes I think it’s not them, grey birds with eyes like plates,
But people outside our house, fitting on the skates.

Then they take them off again, go for a swim
And later mushroom picking, then lands the snow thin
You’re sifting from the skies. That’s our life, you see.
We’re ordinary people, enriching earth with glee.

III.
Paint is on the paper, ice clinking in a glass
If you see any friends of ours, say hello from us
Tell them I am just like always, the struggle goes on.
I shall see you later, Gran. We’ll meet alone.

P.S.
It’s Fozzey boy I’m fighting, day out and day in,
And funnily enough I nearly always win.

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