The Wounded One

I’m stabbed to death by all of what I’m conscious,
My heart is wounded by my own mind.
I can’t be cut from this creation gorgeous,
I’ve born this world with all his pains and tortures.
Tho’ source of fire, I, like smoke, die.

I understand all cheating of my senses,
Play of the shades, I’ve put into this world,
Like an old bard, which got the art of verses,
I do not value deepness of my thoughts.

I feel: the sins before my eyes and darkness,
Azure of skies, and swamps, and all that’s seemed,
Is just a thought, the shadowy sea’s vastness,
I feel it clear: all this life’s a dream.

But having seen in life signs of high willing,
The world’s Creator, I’m not loved by world,
And, shaking from the pains and tortures, thrilling,
Jailed in myself for whole span of my living,
I perish, deadly wounded by my thought.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September 5, 2001