Sometimes I dread the idea
That I could become a "true" poet,
Lost in the abyss of the subconscious,
Seeking tormented answers to questions
About what life is
And if it has any hidden meaning;
Wild-torturing me in the unconscious agony
Of undressing my soul by the petals of innocence;
Trying to drown my thirst for oblivion of what I am,
In a dazzling wordplay of indecipherable;
To live in the cave with mud volcanoes
Of what I think that it's my soul
While around me the day erupts
The tumultuous lava of wonder and miracles;
To put on the lips of beauty and joy
The dark seal of the finding two suitable rhyme lyrics's turmoil.
To serve love as an omelet in the morning
And then to get drunk with the wormwood wine
Of the torment of giving birth to a poem all day long;
Then supporting the criticism of those
Who do not know what it was in my heart
And pitying smiles of those who think that I'm mad ...
Yes , it scares me the idea of becoming a "true" poet
Even a mystic poet I refuse to become -
The connection between me and Him is so intimate
That the words refuse to be desecrated by even my lips.
I prefer to remain a mere mortal,
Yet not a poet, but a troubadour,
Happy every day to walk hand in hand with the sun,
In love with the nature and the ordinary people
And breathing the joy of living and love, through every pore.
