I donít care for fateís predictions. As such, I never tire of life. I bypass those times of the year, That provide no cheer for the songs I sing. The chill of cynicism leaves me wanting, But enthusiasms fall short of my trust. Still - as another exalts my letters, Peering over my shoulder...                         When broken wings falter, There is no pity in me - and not without purpose: I abhor violence and feebleness, Here is only the pity of Christís crucifixion. I recoil from my fears, And I maintain no sympathy for the struggle of innocent pleasures. I cringe when they infiltrate the soul, They deposit their excrement there. I derive no pleasure from staged recreation and its arenas: Although, within them, a million rubles circulate. So allow the star his coveted limelight - I shall never bask in itís glow!
© ?. Translation, 2006