Whose death was tragic is a poet. It is true. And even truer if one was too young. One at the age of 26 they slew; Another by his own hand was hung. And Christ at 33 - he was a poet. He did say: "Thou shalt not kill, and if thou kills, Iíll know..." But nails were driven through his hands, he could no longer pray. No longer could he write as we all know. The number 37 has a sobering effect. I feel the tiny shivers in my spine. A duel ended Pushkinís life at 37, flat. And Mayakovskiy laid his life down on the line. Letís contemplate this number! Ruthless God, You put the question bluntly: EITHER/OR? At this point both Byron and Rimbaud had stopped. But modern poets plan to live a little more. The duel cancelled or perhaps delayed. At 33 - was crucified, but not too much. At 37 - no red blood on my temples sprayed, But only hair grayed, though not as much. I am not ready yet to take my own life! Hold on, bloodthirsty critics! Be discrete. The pure poets walk barefoot on the steel blade of life - They cut their bare SOULS ítill they bleed. The sentiments of poets must be well-restrained. To trim a poet is a clear answer. A quick sharp stab, but he will welcome pain And be cut out like a nasty cancer. I pity numerologists who try to foresee Anxious, like defendants before trial. The life expectancy has grown-and may be The deaths of poets are postponed for a while.
Yes, long necks are just asking for a noose. And breast - for target practice, not for glory. Young death and immortality are bound very loose - Please, let them enjoy life without hurry.
© Eugene Derbarmdiker. Translation, 2005