Why do I write at all? Poets are numerous as stars,
My flower of inspiration is so small
And I’m the last pupil in their class.
I’ve spent my life in meditation and spiritual research
I don’t know poetry and art. No matter how hard I search
For better rimes I’m not so smart in English verse
As natives speakers and professionals by birth.
I’m a Russian but I write for the New World.
To share the light I found in youth
In simple words with other seekers of eternal truths.
America, Australia, hello!
My self-esteem is so low
Because I’m nobody in my land.
And a suspicious alien to your own jazz-band.
I don’t wait much and don’t hope for success.
I tootle for some lonely souls, kin to mine.
The less I have the less I fear to loose
My eternal flute is brave and I don’t mind,
If you don’t like me and consider an abuse
Of your time. I listen only to silence and my rime.
Imagination, dream and vision –
Three steps to reality from the collision
Of Earth and Heaven in our fate.
Mere illusion is an demon’s bait
For the week, who never seek.
Truth approaches your soul in symbolic masks,
Explaining your opportunities and tasks
By some subtle hint and unobtrusive mint.
God is above men’s heads and below their feet.
He’s our roof and foundation, we can’t beat
Dogmatists in argument but we can stand and walk.
The truth for them would be a shock, or a circus,
For us - like a white chock, with which a teacher draws a circle.
If you see Him both in its center and periphery, you are free.