Bored

Not sure if there is a correlation
With Mondays or New Year's jubilation,
Or rather my character of a sloth profound.
But trust me, I'm feeling quite down.

Why and how, it's rather unclear,
But everything I undertake,
Seems to be too fragile to make,
Whatever I try to create.

Poetry? What a whimsical quest,
Idler fancy, a playful jest,
Again, until dawn, with zest.

Light? Yes, light nowadays is in short supply,
In this greyish December world nearby,
On the shore of the New Year's eve.
Rhyme for "weather"? Oh, don't believe
There's a good weather, or festive feel.

How to explain the champagne's color bright
To someone who's never seen the light,
A celebration, for wine to spill,
Not just for nothing - but with a thrill.
And what is it, the old year's farewell?
Well, if it's nearly gone, let it go to hell.

Here, in December, and saved just for me,
Some spring misfortune, circling free.
Take it, sign for it, Heaven's office insists,
It comes with a twist!

I'm stuck in this nasty untimely spring,
Like in detested oatmeal's cling.
Babe, not polite to be so annoyed,
So I smile, overjoyed.

No, don’t expect it, I won't complain,
See, not a tear, nor a claim,
Whatever I do it would feel just the same
And no one to blame.



(перевод моего старого стихотворения "Балуюсь")