Poet

A trice decides, but long times pre-decides –
The hours, days, weeks, months and years, rather…
Bard in a trice – a burst in the world’s muzzle,
The look, enlighten’d, into our Lord’s eyes.

Oh, brothers Bards! We’re crowned not by men.
Older then their the most ancient nations –
We’re volts of stars, the Spirit’s transformations;
A second is our diamond’s a plane. 

But if I am a Bard, I’ll not ignore
In work of mine to turn on, else and else,
A spindle, into deeps of ground placed, –

To free the wonder from its prison-bore,
To make the scent of flowers spread fore, 
To sink a verse into the soul space.      


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, August, 2003