Epilogue

What if my poems, bright or gloom,
Just at beginning end?
They are all happy: brides and grooms,
One who was dying -- dead.

With clear words the novels done,
End with big dots, at least;
One knows who’s a wid., Arman, 
Whose daughter Lisa is.

But there is not a chance to see 
The order in my hums,
They flow over chasm more free
Then dears in their jumps.

And he wouldn’t catch sight of my tears --  
Who reads ans morns a lot:                     
The fate doesn’t set a dot at cease,
But just a blot.  



Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, 1998