Дмитрий Ляляев
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I was terrible and bad
And, apparently, not me alone.
Bloody wicked era
Plaguing not given to anyone.

One only consolation for the heart -
I did not wake up in the villain.
I Dante tricolor hell
Where demons torment people.

Although I did not regret the efforts
To multiply the gift doubly
But was not prompter Virgil
In a way I kind companion.

Summands brutal profit I
Always hated lie:
Art cut wings
Leaving blood to die.

Someone with marked deck
Predicts good fortune
Ate the forbidden fruit,
Singing on stage in a coffin.

Poems can not captivate me,
Bad I probably prophet
And freezes my eloquence
Cold ice floes lines.

Suppose you had a subtly sly,
Killer of people Satan
But I did not deny the truth
Which Yet one.

And Dante, whose name is respectable,
This in itself was not wearing:
Sing, immured in the walls,
Without air, light and power.

I is not one in place
Who is it who is mad, who is blind.
We alive thrown together
On a cold lifeless tomb.

Nothing would terrify
Bathed in the blood of the heart,
And only one consolation -
Hope wait until the end.

Special kind of torment
Quite Satan failed:
We became a prison freedom
Which we swore to love.

And you, my distant reader
About our Razmyslov fate.
I too was a young dreamer
Create idols themselves.

Let going against one thousand,
Do not you trust in a lie.
Youth who are not looking for the truth,
Holds her in vain.

And the truth under the gaze
Tread the holy nakedness.
She - innocently in the crucified,
Spit on us Christ.