Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2000
About My Myself
No, I didn’t lost the beauty, but in whole,
I’m put to shame to see it by my eyes,
By eyes of men – else more, for my soul
Will not agree with their offensive prize.
And so I live, hiding my heart, divine,
Into the breast of a low, nasty rebel …
D’ you see a spider on the green blade, fine,
And on its back – the cruciform black label?
A little child will run away from it,
And in a heist, you ever try to hit –
By squeamish hands – it off your neck of fairy.
It runs away of your unbound wrath,
Ashamed and known not what means the cross,
It always bears on his back so hairy.