And every lie - is the creation of the worlds,
In which a liar had believed himself,
Or wishes to believe, because in this case words
Are unnecessary. There's no in the real
The true liars or the truth-lovers,
As you consider from the first view.
There's the Destiny, who weaves her own design
On laces of a man's life anew...
Sometimes she tears up the pretty cloths,
Sometimes - sews up together the joints.
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In russian:
http: //www.stihi.ru/2010/02/15/5556
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem