Записки полупросветлённого

Мое преступление в том, что здоров,
И духу не нужно теперь докторов.
Мое преступление в том, что я жив,
А Бог лишь живым даровал перспектив.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We are but mere pawns in greedy hands of “kings”,
We are like mindless spawns, as soul-enslaved beings.
No more than the listeners, no more than the followers,

All I feel now is the pain,
All my hopes were but in vain,
And there is no one to blame…
Damn it, have I gone insane?!