A tragic end defines true poets, sparing none.
And if it’s right on time, it’s even better.
At number 26, one chose to face a gun,
Another tied a noose at Angleterre.

And Christ, at thirty-three, who was a poet, said:
"Thouh shall not kill!" ("And if you do, I’ll find you!")
But iron nails were driven deep into His hands,
So He couldn’t write or preach what He’s inclined to.

When I hear 37, sobering takes stage,
As if I feel a draft within a tunnel:
Since Pushkin found himself a duel at this age
And Mayakovsky’s temple touched the muzzle.

The thirty-seventh mark - a cunning god’s design.
Let’s linger on this figure for a minute.
Both Byron and Rimbaud lay down before this line,
But modern generations skipped this limit.

The duel was postponed, perhaps was cancelled at the end.
At thirty-three, was crucified, but lightly.
At thirty-seven, blood forgot to stain my head,
And even silver touched it only slightly.

You heart fell to your boots? Too soft to end your life?
Be patient, psychopaths and evil-wishers!
For poets wander with their heels along a knife
And cut their barefoot souls to bloody tissue.

Our poets grew long in the tooth and in the neck.
Must cut the poet short! - The rule is clear.
They stuck a knife, yet he is happy to be next,
For he was stabbed because his voice was feared.

I pity you, fanatics of all fatal dates!
You languish like a mistress left unnoticed.
The lifespan has increased, perhaps the tragic fates
Of poets are rescheduled for a moment.