Someone spotted a fruit still too green, too green.
After shaking the tree it fell off, fell off.
Here’s a song of the man who didn’t sing, didn’t sing,
Never finding his voice to perform, to perform.

Maybe he had a bad streak of luck, of luck,
Or his fortune was stingy to him, to him.
But the spring on the bridge once got stuck, got stuck:
An invisible flaw there to be.

He shyly touched the middle C,
But failed to sing a minor key...

His chords went silent: sharps and flats, and flats,
Not an inspiring exercise.
The dog was barking, and the cat
Was chasing mice.

It’s funny! Really it is, it is.
His jokes unfinished brought no laughs,
The taste of wine has gone amiss,
He had no time for it enough.

He only started his debate, debate,
Not in a hurry to begin, begin.
Like drops of sweat that pores create, create,
His soul was oozing from his skin, his skin.

He was making first steps on the ring, the ring,
A few vigilant steps, no more, no more;
Never knew what this duel will bring,
And the ref had not opened a score.

He yearned to know from A to Z
He never got there, didn’t he...

Not to the end line was his run, his run,
Not to the depths, not to the depths,
With her, who was for him the one,
He did not get, he did not get, he did not get!

It’s funny! Really it is, it is.
He tried his best to get involved.
He didn’t finish many things,
His plans are half-done, unresolved.

My description is true to the core, to the core:
A true servant of verses he was, he was.
On the snow he wrote poems for her, for her,
But the snowdrifts are melting, alas.

Only then there was snowfall with gale, with gale,
And the freedom to write in the snow.
He was catching big snowflakes and hail, and hail,
With his lips, on the run, on the go.

And in the silver toned caleche
He did not get to her address.

He did not reach his love on time,
On horseback or by plane, by plane.
And Taurus, his celestial sign,
Was lapping up the Milky Way.

It’s funny! Really it is, it is.
A missing link it is of sorts.
When by a second one will miss,
And volleys always fall too short, too short.

It’s funny! Really. It might.
For both of us it sounds the same.
A dashing horse, a bird in flight,
And whom to blame? And whom to blame?