Тише, тише, не кричи!
К нам опять идут врачи.
Свет в квартире отключи.
Тише, тише, помолчи!
Те врачи – убийцы, друг.
У банкиров в роли слуг.
There were many and were few,
And each of them was somewhat new,
Yet each was but another mew,
So soon away I always flew.
Who is the one to do things right,
Who has the perfect future’s sight,
And who has will to gain these?
Those ones who have – stand by now, please.
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.