Here, there can be only one poet—
the one who hurls his verse to the world.
When his voice trembles under strain,
it detonates dawn into light.
In the same agony, he births his lines
as his mother once bore him into life.
He does not remember that moment—
only the weight of sleep that follows.
Some will say: to weave a rhyme
is not like hauling ties upon your back.
I answer: try it yourself—
to judge is merely your wretched fate.
I am no Brodsky—alas,
nor Pasternak, nor any famed name.
I am small, unadorned—
a Russian soldier.
And you, my enemy—
the moment you cast your reproach at me,
you were already dead.
Acid
© Copyright: Максимильян Мельков, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126051905346
Свидетельство о публикации №126051905346
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