It is true that this life is a game,
But not you devise all its rules,
It is vague and evasive, not ever tame,
Full of riddles, that glow like jewels..
You can choose the path that is simple and crude,
To be office peasants or so,
With immaculate shirts, that are clearly cut
And the characters suiting the show..
You can go and escape, be a Jack-of-all-trades,
And evaluate your own success,
Overlooking your smart or silly mistakes,
Or managing precious mess..
Whatever the way, you're bound to take,
It's essence is rough and coy,
Like heretic wisdom,
Crude outbreak,
Such as one by Leo Tolstoy..
Being a genius, a giant of words,
A writer of glorious rate,
He failed to predict only one little thing:
The whims of human fate...
An image is taken from: https://lilac2012.livejournal.com/443699.html