My poem, yet, wasn’t by me bred – The different things chanced there, in whole: Once, by a coward it was scraped, Once, by a hero it was mold. Once, by a lover it was praised, Once, by a liar – with lie sated, But I was dreaming of the lines, Writ, as they say, by Hand of Deity. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, June, 2001