Записки недопросветленного [поэзия]

I will be eternal eyes -
Those of universal size,
I may open many doors
And to show you where each goes,

I may help you find the way
Where you'll never be the prey,
Where you won't be rubbish shelf …
Where you will become yourself.

Where your deeds are all the right,
Where your conscience feels alright,
Where your never know the fear,
Where inspiration is so near...


But speak with me, speak at long last,
And please, get rid of this disgust
And never fear what they think,
I am your only and last link,

I am your only and last chance,
I am what's being called 'six sense',
I am the vision in the light,
I am a sunray in the night.

So speak with me with me when times are hard
For I am your eternal guard
Who's granted vision to decide
What's good and bad, what's light and night.


So speak ! I'll tell you of your life
Whether you should emerge or dive,
But if your thoughts and deeds were foul
Then I will speak myself - your soul...

Успех

What does one strife for, if not success ?
Constantly pressured, each day in stress ?
What do I care ? Listen or not -
Poem's successful, still being hot.


For politician it's measured in voices,
And for musician it's all in the noises.

For the reporter - it's in sensations,
And for astronomer - in observations.

As for the priest - it's measured in souls,
And for each medic it's counted in bowels.

For common mystic it's in divinations.
What of the killer ? In annihilations.

For simple writer it's in the novels,
For complex digger it's in the shovels.

For undertaker this one's in corpse,
For the oculist this one's in orbs.

It's in new places for endless strollers
And for all merchants all in the dollars.

And for the army it's in the wars ...
Now do you see where successful one goes ?

And for the planet it's in the us.
Want be successful ? See where this goes ?


Or will prefer not to race for success,
Driving as madman, always in stress ?
Spirit success now is being so rare ...
Poem's successful ... what do I care ?

Мечта

We all are given rare gift -
The time will pass, the planes will shift,
But for as long as we have dreams
To live through time we have the means.

The dream may free, the dream may kill,
The dream may heal and make one ill,