My friend, my friŃend,
I got very, and very illness.
I don't know where from came this pain.
Either the wind over the empty
Deserted field whistles.
Or, like a grove in September,
Alcohol showers my brain.
My head flaps its ears,
Like a bird does by wings.
It is beyond its power to loom
On the neck of my leg.
Black man,
Black, black,
Black man
Sits down on my bed kip;
Black man does not let me sleep all night crud.
Black inscrutably man
Runs his finger over a vile book
And, ululating over me
Like a monk over a defunct dead,
Reads me the unclear life
Of some scoundrel and drunksoak
Bringing me sadness and fear dread,
Black inscrutable man
Blackish, blackish…
"Listen, listen," he mutters to ear of mine,-
“The book contains many of beautiful
Thoughts and plans.
This man lived in a land clime
Of the most vile thugs and cunning charlatans.
In December at that country
The snow is pure as for the devil,
And blizzards set
Merry spinning wheels in motion.
That man was an adventurer evil,
But of the highest
And finest quality stamp.
He was graceful,
And a poet, low sort,
Although not with great,
But with a tenacious forcefulness.
And he called some woman
Over forty years old,
By an infamous girl
And his sweetheart miss.
"Happiness," he was saying, -
“Is sleight of mind and hand.
All clumsy souls
Are always known as unblest.
It doesn't matter
That many torments
Brought by broken
And deceitful gestures.
In thunderstorms, in tempests,
In the cold of life,
In the midst of heavy loses,
And when you get sad,
To appear smiling and simplified
The highest art in the universe."
“The black dark man!
You can not do that!
You're not living
On duty of divers.
What do I care about the life
Of a scandalous poet?
Please, read and tell only others!”
The Black, Black Man
Looks at me point-blank.
And his eyes are covered
With blue vomit slime.
As if he wants to tell me
That I'm a thief and a crook,
So shamelessly and brazenly
Robbed someone.
-
Author:
Ksey_Gan (
Offline)
- Published: October 10th, 2025 21:45
- Category: Fable
- Views: 4
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