Poesill

 

My poems, will end, when I give up
I see no other reason not to write
Even if you fools would cut my tongue
I won't shut my up,
I'll squeeze the whole, for an eternal right.

For me, every line, is Cholera and a pest,
No way to rescue mine with Bubonic mask.
Poetry is eating cells of mind's main
And fills formed emptiness with the shampaine.

I'm serving the fate, bear the debt of honor,
My face all in dirt and passioned for lust.
The one who's weak, who's hands are gave up - silenced.
Traces of birch, my heart is cross-section rust.

Blinded left the pledge after seeing buity,
Only those went deafed, who enjoyed the singing.
Poets are tormented at Vestibule of mute,
And wised are begone from oblivion that's winging.

Dropping tears wouldn't make life better,
and vision of the past lose chance to see tomorrow,
No sense to sober up in alcoholic treatment
No sense to finish if you snaked the start.

In my word, I don't carry any message
For thought of yours there is no circulation.
It's a push, so my steamship can float,
And headed against foreign stream narration.

Original https://vk.com/yaannahata?w=wall-112420512_316
Poetry МОЯАНАХАТА
Translation Alexander Kandaurov
#мояанахата #poetry #стихи