To those who seek their life, the Fortune in the rhymes,
Who fall asleep and wake still looking for their prey.
Whose trophy is the illness, the sequence of dire crimes
That make them immobile; again to God they pray
For being cold and calm, for stifling all the flame
That burns down their souls, that tears their minds
To pieces. As they rise or fall, again they claim
To be undone and mad, to be completely blind.
They try to find repose, to set their hearts to rest,
To swallow their complaints, to stop just for a while.
A moment—and again they’re clawing their chests,
Is joy that? Is that pain? The bliss or endless trial?
You know, you will find not many of that kind,
Is fervor in their hearts, and eyes are open wide.
Dedicated to all Shakespeare lovers
© Copyright: Дмитрий Коханов, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117033102753
Свидетельство о публикации №117033102753
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