I Have Got But One Only Fun Left
I have got but one only fun left: Fingers mouthed, and a whistle of cheer. An ill fame has swept o'er that I am A vulgarian, a debauchee. Ah, how paltry, how trifling the waste is! Trifling losses are plenty around. Having had faith in God is shameful. Having no faith is painful now. Golden reveries, distant expanses! All is burnt by the gloom of day's grind. Both indecent and wretched have I been Just in order to give out more light. Soothe and claw, that's the gift of a poet, It is wearing the birthmark of fate. In this plane, a white rose and a sour toad I've been having in mind to cross-mate. What of that the ideas of pink days Haven't shaped up, haven't come true? But if imps, in my heart, were nestling, Angels must have lived there, too. Hence because of this revel of darkness, Taking it to alternative climes, At my last breath, I'm eager to ask them, Who are going to be at my side: For my burdensome sins, for my wrong acts, For my lack of belief in the grace, Lay me down in a kosovorotka Under icons to pass away.