The poet writes a simple sentence
And the critic or interpreter
Writes hundred words on it
Bringing in his knowledge
And eloquence, explaining it
With existentialist background,
Disputing traditional religion,
Going back to swinging sixties
Or amoral base of the 21st century.
Poet himself is not interested
In disputing all this: he thinks,
Maybe, it was in my subconscious,
Why deny what I am not sure about?
The critic would have loved to be
In the creator’s position: not lucky,
He creates his own vision of that poet,
Which takes over the official version.
Not knowing, the subterranean links
Between words put together on surface
The poet rests content, eyes closed, on
What his admirer thinks he wrote.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Like art, it's all in the eye's of the beholder