There in suburbs the deserted area has grown
On the unstable wetland.
And there the poets lived - everyone met other
With a smile, quite arrogant.
The bright day would vainly shine over
That quiet sad bog:
Its dwellers were devoting all their days long
To wine and to a thoroughful work.
When drunken - the poets swore each other to be good,
To be friends, chattered cinically and spicy.
At morning - they vomitted... Then, in the closed rooms
Worked zealously and hardly.
Then they went out of their boxes, as dogs,
Looked at sea, being by fire burned.
And were catched by the every plait's gold,
Passing by, in a skilful talk.
Having got a luxuary, they dreamed more
About the gold era, all abused their publishers.
And cried bitterly the every small flower over,
And every small pearl cloud in the skies ahead.
So the poets lived. A reader and friend!
May be you are thinking, that they were worser,
Than your everyday common but vain attempts
Or your quiet inhabitant pool or bog?
No, my dear reader, my rather a blind critic!
A poet, at least, has the plaits,
Has the clouds in heaven, a golden era,
You are - simply out of that wealth.
You will be glad with yourself, with your wife,
With your scanty lean body,
But the poet will have - a drinking hard,
A wide-world one, not enough with that only.
Then let I die under the fence, as dog,
Then let my life trampled me into the ground, -
I believe in God, who has snowed me over,
In a blizzard, which kissed me lightly!
24.July.1908