Prize the poets – oh people
They are smeared with God’s word.
Do not hold their verse under censorship,
Their destinies are tied to the Saints.
A poet dried his eyes from nostalgia
Like a swan he was beating against the wall of envy,
He was not evil spirited, but of white plumes
Poured out words of God’s origin.
He was not waiting for idyll from you
He showed by example how candle burns.
In his soul he was bringing you lilies
He was made by Creator a scribe.
Did not notice, didn’t respond.
How he prayed for you at Holy censers
You forged ache into shutters with loops
Didn’t notice his golden wings.
Prize the poets – oh people
They are smeared with God’s word.
Do not hold their verse under censorship,
Their destinies are tied to the Saints.
Prize the poets oh people they are smeared with Go
© Copyright: Людмила Ларкина, 2008
Свидетельство о публикации №108082300645
Свидетельство о публикации №108082300645
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