by Varlam Shalamov
A Poetry - is the affair of
The old men - all grey-haired,
Of those, who're wrinkled and wounded,
But not of boys, young, immature.
Of those men, who lived a lot of,
A hundred lives on the stern earth,
Who rose upwards from the bottom,
But not of the young, silly boys.
The study of highlands of heavens,
The study of depth of your soul,
The Poetry - a ripe fruit with hairs,
All grey in the flame of the old.
- -
In russian and translation into bulgarian
by Krasimir Georgiev
http: //www.stihi.ru/2013/01/29/1084
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem