Poetry

It was the time of retribution,
Of thoughts all dying in confusion,
It was one coldest winter day,
When sun had moved off the way.

It is so difficult to say
If one can follow own way,
If he can face what lies ahead,
If he will live – or live as dead.

What does one strife for if not success?
Constantly pressured, each day in stress?
What do I care? Listen or not –
Poem’s successful, still being hot.

Speak with me when it is time –
I will tell you what is prime,
I will tell you what is right,
I shall purify your sight.

I am just a silent monk
And have no a silver tongue,
Though I’ll try to sing a song
Of how deeply I have sunk.

Slow down, friend, you’ve worked fine
For endless months staying till nine,
And worked like a caged pet,
Whose health became his crazy bet.

I’ve come to this for now at last –
All past no more than a dust
With dead ideals full of rust
Now blown away with fresh wind’s gust.

What of me? I’m good, you see,
I am the one, who just broke free,
I am that one, who wants to change
Imperfect world within my range.

The webs of past are thick to hack,
And maze of life is cold and dark,
There are no torches on its walls …
You wander by without goals.

It is the dream of my origin,
For in the dreams I am still virgin,
And still I’m fighting with my sleep,
But hesitate to make a leap.