That flute, that was quiet, sounds again. R.Tagor «Breathing of spring»
The Magic of the Word.
And He speaks.
And earthly, and celestial creatures heeded Him.
And you, man, heeded Him.
And He inlaid in your mouths the Word.
And doomed your soul to the eternal torment of the vanity of equilibrium between All-forgiving Heaven and Hell of Ununderstanding.
What is Poet?
What is He in the world, drinking celestial plenty from the stinking hoof track of Taurus?
What is the soul of Poet. However it is a bird, trying to fly up from track, from sucking dirt?
The track is fresh.
It is made by the wheel of wagon, whose businesslike owner knows a road, and knows an aim, and knows a price to itself and road.
But now a bird get under a passionless rim, and a wheel, crunching the whimsical frame of its wing, rolled farther.
Palpitate in blood of your winged soul.
Are you in pain?
And our world is in pain.
But he does not know about the pain, so as he knows about the losses and about the veritable criterion of life.
The world does not understand an unlikeness.
The world does not accept an unlikeness.
The world does not forgive an unlikeness.
We are children of people, gripped in the vice of the universal ununderstanding and non-acceptance of his unlikeness.
We are children of people, which could (even in earthly hell) to save harmony of the Soul, Ear is receptive to sounding of celestial spheres, Heart is beating in the rhythm of Eternity.
We are children of people, which carries a cross «without guilt of guilty» by ages, life of which from age in age is an inaudible song for the name of Earth, life of which becomes certain astral terra incognita for the distant and vain look of the busy by itself world.
History is to dead tables.
Literature is to the quivering souls.
Every people in this skies abode possess treasure meaningfulness of which it is impossible to estimate earthly measurements.
This essence is soul of nation, that secret hypostasis that determines, together with mentality, the image of nation great or small, in the arithmetic measuring.
The key to the quivering secrets of the soul is a culture the most true zealot of which is an aimless tribe of writers, at all times and at any public transformations having own, radically different from officially settled the moral way with a projection in Endlessness.
And let a wingless bird sings.
Let it sings in the boundless field of sorrows of human, without a hope to be heard someone, but true trusting that the world will be forgiven from and for the sake of it.
Sing, the bird.
Translated by Alexander Pryazhnikov