Although I've traveled through history,
I'm stubborn, more so than the brat
whose father vainly explains
that the moon is not a ball,
stubborn and even if punished a hundred times
I still seek the merciless truth
the hundred and first time.
That is my work.
The broken-winged bird of happiness
is thrashing in my hand;
I have to make it fly,
the broken-winged bird of happiness
that has been taking off and dropping back
for millennia.
I've been thrashing too,
-- worn down by centuries --;
I pass out all my joys,
and share with you people my miseries.
Oh, the baroque balm of wondrous words, --
please, don't prolong my pain!
Half truths:
short-lived Novocain.
Straight talk
can work wonders.
Kept on bread and water I say the same.
That's why society keeps me around.
The moon is a ball! And, if by some chance,
I fail to catch it, I'll be dew, dew on a star,
and Earth will seem brighter
to the neighboring planets.
And if the Sun calls me back,
let people truthfully say about me:
he did not associate with puddles,
but let lilies take baths in him,
come and gone the same way.
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