1.
I am the poet. The LIFE has been wailing through my bones for a whole life. When I pass, the flowers burst into flames. I touch their flames to warm my hands I am the poet. Nevertheless how quiet and noiseless my steps are, I disturb the dark.

2.
Mountain flower: There is nobody here to notice that you are blossoming - you sparkling inspiration!
The will of my root I do fulfil, and - God is watching!

3.
The poet is a flower. And where is the poet?
- Deep, deep in the heart of the flower. Didn't you see his blue pupil in the eye of the violet?!

4.
Love: My shadow blossomed out as she was passing. And scorched - when she had passed by.

5.
The herb - gatherer descends down a mountain shouldering the bag with hopes. Isn't that an omen? The mountain didn't descend to Muhammad, but now it follows the herb-gatherer along the city streets! Injured angels awate him at the sguare . He is the Saviour. As if he descends down the Heaven.

6.
Man is a target wherever he goes. During a thunderstorm in the field we all lack lightning rods. "Let me not drain the cup of sorrow to the dregs!", you pray. The prayer of your neighbour is the same, /and sometimes he is the most precious friend of yours/. Where should the thunder pour its decanter. It looks not for a sinner, but for a sensitive conductor. I don't know why, but every time Heaven starts rolling its stones, I expect the thunder to strike me.

7.
Here is the watershed: between the gold mine and the golden rule. We are in the abyss. Everybody on his shore. Between us the sea roars and caste ashore drowned people. The souls of our feeble old mothers and our infant brothers groan in Heaven. Wolves and doves - we are all brethren! "Those who have drowned salute you" - even you, the lepes!

I WAS LONGING

I take compassion on living creatures,
And claim to be of innocent germ.
But once, while spading in my garden
I cut asunder a worm.

I watch its two parts now wriggling
After his helping me for so long.
My destiny is to be a sinner!
And I was longing to be a saint…