How to leave the poets

< Sergei Anchutkin



Many people in the world,
Yes and no less different lives ...
At one life - as a moment,
Flew - do not have time to blink ...
For others, they allotted century - infinity itself,
And they do not have time
times For the end of the world step.
But a special life
Do the creators of beauty - poets
. They glow brightly,
Blindly his heat of the Gods,
But, alas - only the second
We see the light of their silhouettes:
Burn to ashes,
It was only an echo of the call can be heard.
And in the hour when smells
Therefore, that the end is near,
Keeping the spark,
What is still smoldering in the breast,
He is carried away into the night,
Leaving like a proud bird,
To the lunar path
By the horizon with waves come ...
Splashes of sea face,
Drunk wind hit in the back wings,
And still:
Knowing that he can not fly,
He takes off, and in a moment
That short, when it over us,
Dawn sky
"Goodbye ..." time to say ...
A moment passes,
Again eternity compresses arms,
And torn from the top of
His infinite love,
Again flies - just down,
Smiling in response to the curse.
This world he was leaving,
Call - do not call ...
So goes the poet,
Without waiting for the moments of dawn,
Alone among the beam
darkness Having time to shine ...
Maybe the stars,
What is falling from the dark sky all summer - That the creators of that so quickly
And hot pass your way ...