On Mayakovsky’s head the palm of the sun - the clergyman of the world, the forgiveness of all sins. Earth tells him: “Now let go!”
Let the stupid historians, infuriated by contemporaries, write that the poet lived a boring and uninteresting life. Let him know that he will drink his morning coffee in the Summer Garden. The day he descended into the world was absolutely like everyone else, no signs burned in the sky of his Bethlehem. But how can he not glorify himself if he feels himself utterly unseen, and his every movement an inexplicable miracle? His most precious mind can invent a new two-legged or three-legged animal. So that he could turn winter into summer, and water into wine, an extraordinary lump beats under the fur of his vest.
With its help all people can perform miracles - laundresses, bakers, shoemakers. And to see Mayakovsky, this is an unprecedented miracle of the twentieth century, pilgrims leave the tomb of the Lord and the ancient Mecca. Bankers, nobles and doges no longer understand: why did they rake in expensive money, if the heart is everything? They hate the poet. In the hands with which he boasted, they give a gun; his tongue is spat upon with gossip. He is forced to drag a day yoke, driven into an earthly paddock. On his brains is the "Law", on his heart a chain - "Religion", the core of the globe is riveted to his feet. The poet is now forever imprisoned in a meaningless tale.
And in the middle of the gold circulation of money lives the Lord of All - the irresistible enemy of Mayakovsky. He is dressed in smart pants, His belly is like a globe. When they die, He reads Locke’s novel with a happy ending, for Him Phidias sculpts magnificent women from marble, and God - His agile cook - prepares pheasant meat. He is not affected by either revolution or the change of drovers of a human herd. Crowds of people always come to Him, the most beautiful woman leans towards His hand, calling His hairy fingers the names of Mayakovsky's verses.
Seeing this, Mayakovsky comes to the pharmacist for a cure for jealousy and longing. He offers him poison, but the poet knows about his immortality. Mayakovsky ascends to the sky. But the praised sky seems to him near only a licked surface. Verdi's music sounds in the firmament; angels live importantly. Mayakovsky gradually takes root in heavenly life, meets new aliens, among whom his friend Abram Vasilievich. He shows the new arrivals the magnificent props of the worlds. Everything here is in terrible order, at rest, in a rank. But after many centuries of heavenly life, the heart begins to make noise in the poet. There is longing, he imagines some kind of earthly appearance. Mayakovsky peers at the ground from above. Next to him, he sees an old father who peers into the outlines of the Caucasus. Boredom embraces Mayakovsky! Showing the worlds numbers of incredible speed, he rushes to the ground.
On earth, Mayakovsky is mistaken for a dyer who fell from the roof. Over the centuries spent by the poet in heaven, nothing has changed here. Rubles are rolling down the equatorial slope from Chicago through Tambov, ramming mountains, seas, pavements. The poet’s enemy is in charge of everything, either in the form of an idea, then resembling a devil, then shining with God behind a cloud. Mayakovsky is preparing to take revenge on Him.
He stands above the Neva, looking at a meaningless city, and suddenly sees his beloved, who goes with rays over the house. Only then Mayakovsky begins to recognize the streets, houses and all his earthly torments. He welcomes the return of his love madness! From an accidental passerby, he learns that the street where the beloved lives is now called Mayakovsky, who shot himself under her window thousands of years ago.
The poet looks out the window at a sleeping beloved - just as young as thousands of years ago. But then the moon becomes the bald spot of his old enemy; morning is coming. The one whom the poet took for her beloved turns out to be a strange woman, the wife of engineer Nikolaev. The doorman tells the poet that Mayakovsky's beloved, according to an old legend, jumped out of the window onto the poet's body.
Mayakovsky stands on the fireproof fire of inconceivable love and does not know which sky he is now turning to. The world beneath him draws: “Peace be upon the saints!”
