The Song About the Poet

Oh, look: he walks, suffering and lonely,
With a pen behind his ear, like a sword... angry.
From the heart to the stars - his path is one-way,
Even if he borrows his breakfast and his earthly sins on credit.

To him, this world is like a cruel prison,
And the bread on the table is murder for words.
But in his verses - there is depth and a high soul,
Even if his nose is sometimes frostbitten by dreams.

In a tavern, he reads about death and parting,
With pathos, he drinks to "universal pain,"
And then - to a small room, where the muse with a bow
Shoots an arrow right into the target of his wallet.

He will curse the authorities, the master, and God,
But give him a gold coin - and he'll write a sonnet!
For being a poet is a profession, an ability
To stare at a feather... and see the flight.

And even though we laugh and spit in scorn,
Let us admit: without him, even the night is not alive.
For who else will weave us a song about torment,
When in his heart - there is often only emptiness?