Рубрика: Стихи на Английском/ENGLISH

I'm in the light, open to every eye -
I do as I do often; like an icon
I come up to a microphone; today
It's more like I'm approaching a cannon.
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By the edge, near the precipice, at the very limit,
I am beating at my horses with my arm, a whiplash in it.
I'm not getting enough air - drinking wind, the fog imbibing,
And I scent with deadly rapture: I am dying, I am dying!
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Someone saw the fruit, that could not get ripe
They shook the trunk - it fell, just so...
Here's the song of him who did not finish his song
And that he had a voice - he did not know.
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In the quiet valley where rocks do not stand in the way of the windstorm
In such places that no one got there or will get again
There joyfully lived a happy mountain echo
It answered the cry of mankind - yes it answered the cry of the man.
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O what a ball! Intensity of movement, nerves and sound!
The hearts were beating in three beats and not in twain.
And ladies were inviting gentlemen
To a traditional white waltz - and took the breath away.
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