Let poet be blamed unfairly
By mocking, mad society as well,
But nothing will prevent him really,
And no one will hear my answer.
I have been living to this day for myself,
My song is racing so free in space,
As a wild bird in the empty desert,
As a boat, floating on lake.
And what's the interest to the high court,
When you are sitting before me,
When my hand's mystically warmed
By your hand, such a sudden gift.
When I'm spending highest hours
With you, oh, maiden of the bliss,
Without any mark of suffering,
Without turning eyes of this.