By Mikhail Lvovich Matusovsky
...The pain, as fire, can flare up, and then
Go out, and again return.
And there're, no any means it to abate,
We can't do this, it alternates its form.
It may be the inheritance of people,
Or may be the requital for the sins:
The baby is born out painfully,
With pain the verses go into real.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem