I donít care for fateís predictions.
As such, I never tire of life.
I bypass those times of the year,
That provide no cheer for the songs I sing.
The chill of cynicism leaves me wanting,
But enthusiasms fall short of my trust.
Still - as another exalts my letters,
Peering over my shoulder...
When broken wings falter,
There is no pity in me - and not without purpose:
I abhor violence and feebleness,
Here is only the pity of Christís crucifixion.
I recoil from my fears,
And I maintain no sympathy for the struggle of innocent pleasures.
I cringe when they infiltrate the soul,
They deposit their excrement there.
I derive no pleasure from staged recreation and its arenas:
Although, within them, a million rubles circulate.
So allow the star his coveted limelight -
I shall never bask in itís glow!