Dialogues of Hatred and Poverty

From shivering and trembling flame
Warm streams run to the looking-glass,
So in its mist after the years' rain
Reflections of the evening depict the articles:

Of century the 17th a table of fine oak
Keeps touches of a master-man
Writing at it and thinking of his own
Year by year, from day to day.

A glass embraces blood red wine,
No, it is filled with vinous blood.
The wine was often drunk for kind.
Now it contains the venom of the heart.

The life of the old clock for long abated
Remembers faces of the shadow past.
The cold dark evening has penetrated
Through claret-colored dusty blinds.

The night has mounted onto the canvas
Where the brushes counted the leaves.
And softly hissed and twinkled candles
Having sensation of the presence of his.

Behind the window there's the blooming may.
He doesn't notice the rich spring.
With colors that are on canvas used to play
He answers the heart's thought and dream.

A flower fallen to grey dust
Is still in languor of his presence.
The fire is like throbbing pulse,
Like pang coming through the temples.

A squeaking door is slowly opened.
Making unsure heavy steps
In rags a figure appeared in clothes
That doesn't melt cold of the hands.

He is still young passing his way
The proud look already died.
The hair, tangled, becomes grey,
The lips are pressed to turning white.

As if there is a burden to carry
That makes him faint and quite feeble
He silently sits into the chair
And puts his head upon the table.

Behind the misty, grayish mirror
A sound silvering is hardly heard.
A deep sigh, coming from the mirror
With pang of centuries like a bird

Has rushed into the room with groan.
On the same chair where the poor man is sitting
Reflects a stranger on the throne -
Another shadow comes to meeting.

It is appearing thick from nothing
Weaving and soon becoming dense.
His eyes are looking with black sparkles.
So he is sitting proud, tall, with grace.

He gazes through the locks of hair.
There is a garland of roses black.
He is so pale, he is so fair
Without motion. But how brave

His grandeur and how great his gaze
That can turn your cheeks to pallid.
No one from memory can efface
There is no way to escape from hatred.

And overcoming separation
If you are friends or enemies.
It'll find and burn to ashes,
Will bless the anguish, sufferings.

Poverty:
It is not by chance that lead
The wheel of mournful dreadful fate
To the rooms with age-old space
To see how my own way fails

From the beginning to the end.
Yes, yes, the end is near. Cursed.
My death is not because of lead.
I am ill-starred since the very birth.

Absorbing this damned bloody wine
The heart's nock will be the last.
It'll save my chest from torments for a while.
You say to know the good nobility - I can't.

You've come to tell about beauty.
I'm the ugliness in all.
No honesty or fame in future.
And this is needless. I want to pour

This very poison where your pity can go down.
I'm your youngster brother. Forget that.
Do you hear the moan around?
There is no way back. It is my sunset.

Hatred:
Oh, Poverty, Poverty. What is the reason of harm
Which is so strongly touched to you?
Poverty like a slippery snake crept up
And wound round the neck. But you

Are looking for the evil, but not inside yourself – in vain.
So I emerge as your reflection, we have the common root.
Look inside your sole, now into mine – just the same strain.
Then why do I understand so easily your mood?

Nobleness and generosity do not fill in the heart.
The suffering I leave to the cold December.
The suffering can sip life so slowly or at one gulp
And it will dry all up and any human will remember

Neither the magic love, nor singing of the sky,
Nor the daybreak warm , which is the dream,
But the delirium that everything denies.
Oh, Poverty, life is quite, quite different.

Didn't you tell about nobility when being without a penny,
But honest, not self-loving, free,
Knew neither bitterness, not malice,
Without meanness, fraud and trickery.

You with proud hid all this behind some kind of veil,
The covert envy that is behind your chest
The sole of an imagined poor poet failed
To reveal pity released. So came grey days.

Needlessly prayed and badly hurt the knees
And longed to be another man just even for some days
And not because of uselessness and idleness
Alone you rambled among the graves.

What is oblivion, honesty and love
When you are given the low steps?
I knew the happiness of height,
But then I granted them contempt.

Look, what the long suffering is making.
You were crying too much these years.
Of anguish and envy the cold wedding
Doesn't give the birth to freedom.

Poverty:
Why do I need this freedom
Where rules not love, but some reflection?
I saw it in a night dream:
Pride will turn to be deception.

How did you try alone
To subjugate your fate?
And you stung everyone
Who came across your way.

But you cannot clearly perceive
That there are also some blue dawns,
That the bright worlds can never cease
With the aroma of a white rose.

I hold them on my palms.
Be silent! Well, I must admit:
I saw it only in my slumber
And don't repent of this my sleep.

Why am I talking here regretting?
You, my brother, have seen it.
But why did you conceive this hatred?
Like me, you once became extinct.

You fell so low being above the crowd
And now you pass to me these doubts...

Hatred:
You dare not blame me.
I saw the happiness not in diamond luster
And didn't permit satiety to capture me.
I hated thoughts like these. When trifles
Ruled so unjust. It is unfair, really.
When there's malicious joy about misfortunes
Of other people can disturb your mind
And pity for yourself cannot stop the tears
The black resentment will clasp your mind
To watch the world of merriment with gritting teeth
And send the domination arrow to those who are happier than you
And look for consolation in the imagined dreams
Don't blame me just for that. There is no dream that can be true.
Living by hope you will not know sweet happiness.
Those, who like you, are doomed to hatred.
There is no other freedom. For me hatred is bravery.
When men are weak in heart, they are like shadows.

Poverty:
I am nor a master, neither a slave
My sole feels heavy pain.
But if I overcome hatred with love

Hatred:
You didn't know the real pain enough.
You're ill and poor, don't have many.
Can sell your sole just for a penny.
Love is a vice, different, bright
Has many reasons. One can fight
For passion, lust, for delicacy, tenderness,
There is a place for hatred, vengeance.

Poverty:
You think that you are sage
And speak about things with wisdom.

Hatred:
I see your eyes and still young face,
You are in shame of bare misery.

My brother, never you roamed about the world
And were afraid to look over the gate
And saw ugliness inside your own
Alas, ugliness lives behind the fence,

It rules wealth, idleness and fuss.
You may choose my way to pass,
Or, brother, you can live your own.
Today alone, always alone.

Poverty:
Now I'm not of my thoughts master.
I think I'll make a decision later.





Poetry by Alla Antares
Read 492 times
Written on 2007-03-16 at 11:50

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