Oh, look: he walks, suffering and lonely,
With a pen behind his ear, like a sword\u2026 angry.
From the heart to the stars \u2013 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 \u2013 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 \u201cuniversal pain,\u201d
And then \u2013 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 \u2013 and he\u2019ll write a sonnet!
For being a poet is a profession, an ability
To stare at a feather\u2026 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 \u2013 there is often only emptiness?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Oh, look: he walks, suffering and lonely,With a pen behind his ear, like a sword\u2026 angry.From the heart to the stars \u2013 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 […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[55],"tags":[122,115],"zbirnyk":[],"class_list":["post-4523","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry","tag-death","tag-word"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n