Whose life that seem(ed) so tragically, was indeed! a poet!,
And if the time has come, so very early,
The date of «26», met killing one, and dead1,
When S.U.2 found his peace in place of Hotel3,

When aged 33, he4 spoke to Jesus, he was say5:
«You’re trying me to kill. But, When I’ll find you!..»
And nails in his hands - to have forget for all his care,
And straight in brow, to think - how really, should I,

The moment of enlightenment came6, with battle, in one’s hand,
The wild wind blows, when Pushkin met the duel,
The moment of enlightenment, cast the struggle, and the death,
And Mayakovsky, pull down «37» -

The last date «37» seems so fatal, when the Lord,
Has placed a question squarely: or-either,
This year was found the poets, like a Byron and Rimbaud,
But other, these, race(d) past, without neither,

And so the fight postponed, or took another place,
When I became my misery so slowly,
At 33, me - sufferings, not only it, but - pain,
Has made me my own blood, and not too dirty,

It is no use begin a fight, when our heart in boots,
Be patient! Hysterical and crank-ones!
And poets, living dangerous, when their bare foots,
Were covered with blood an’ weaken(ed) souls,

Observe the word two letters in the ending of «long-neecked»,
To understand, it means - to shoot the poet,
And - knife - for him, and - happy, he is - walking on the edge,
Who slaughtered, because he was a cruel,

When I myself, have pity on supporters’ fatal dates,
They’re languish as a hostages in harems,
I know, their peace will come, and they will give free hands,
But rather - in the day, when drain the sorrows,

The poets’ immortality was self-survived and true,
And breast - to set the targets. Don’t be hurry!
The long-neck - is the rope, to making traps for fools,
And so, be mercy, when their wounds were crying.