Прохор Озорнин - На Крыльях Надежды: Поэзия. Избранное

I have been given flaming blade
To pierce night and fight with shade,
And it is glowing with that fire
The source of which is my desire.

It has seen war, it knows of peace,
It chopped heads, it burned grease,
And it executed swift death,
For some it's curse, for others bless.

It has severed diseased limbs,
It has exposed others’ sins,
It was a torch for ones in dark,
Cut out exit to those stuck.

It settled disputes in the world,
It used to touch the right heart's chord,
Its clang alone can make heart brave,
And it is lost for those who rave.

It is engulfed in the flame
And thus can make its wielder lame,
It brings uncommon sort of fame
Which clears heart and grants no shame.

Yes, I can feel its heat in hands ...
This blade has traveled many lands
And many battles it has seen,
Those armed with it destined to win.

It's a reflection of a Word,
Which always touches rightist chord
And purifies its victim's heart ...
Eternal justice, friend and guard.

I don't know why I feel I am
Once lived through all of this - and then
I have forgotten who I was,
Who were my friends, who were my foes,

How I was called, and how I died ...
This feeling does constantly bite,
But still my memory is mist ...
It's like I start with empty list.

And yet some sparks of former life
Feel very old the time I dive
Into reflection of myself -
And this makes squeeze my soul nerve.

I feel I once had many names ...
Are these but dreams, just madness games?
I might have gone completely mad,
But these feelings long have bred.

I worn them all, they were like clothes
For man with many names I was
And many faces I once had ...
I am, no doubt, truly mad.

How one can live the endless life
And pass through death ... and still survive?
And still in times remember that
Another own name he had?

They are all mine, I once were them,
All these persons in the pram,
Like were-man I always shift ...
Is it a curse, is it a gift?

Is there is one beyond them all
That is my only truly goal,
The one, who never had the name,
The Nameless One ... are we the same?

I will remember once them all
For this is only worthy goal ...
The time will come, I'll pass through flames
To be the Man Of Many Names.

It is the dream of my origin,
For in the dreams I am still virgin,
And still I'm fighting with my sleep,
But hesitate - that's why I weep.

My worthless dreams I must deny,
But still afraid to make the try,
For who am I now to decide
What dream is wrong, what dream is right?

My purest dream is that of bird -
It is the symbol of the world
Which always change and born anew,
This bird I am, like it I flew.

For like a phoenix I reborn ...
My wings may melt, my wings may worn,
But I'm constantly born anew,
I'm many-faced in others view.

I am restored in the fire,
The fire's cold, that fire's dire,
It forges one's wings to make him flyer ...
It is a grand sight to admire.

From former ego it deprives,
And, as its victim slowly dies,
His flesh begins to grow anew ...
And still survivors are so few.

I'm passing through this coldest hell,
My burning skin is all I smell,
My former past will once unfold ...
It is a strange sight to behold.

For I am one without name,
I've lost my past, rejected fame,
The Earth will never be my home ...
I will be free the time I'm gone.

All other worlds awaiting me ...
I will awake, I shall break free,
Inside myself I'm searching deeper -
Such is the fate of the Unsleeper.

No one can help me on my path,
I'm always self, I'm never "us",
Through divine hell I'm passing by
To forge the wings for final flight.

The time will come, I will reborn,
My former skin myself I'll torn,
Reborn anew, becoming flyer -
It's all the wish, it's one's desire.

What does one strife for, if not success?
Constantly pressured, each day in stress?

What do I care? Listen or not -
Poem's successful, still being hot.

For politician it's measured in voices,
And for musician it's all in the noises.

For the reporter - it's in sensations,
And for astronomer - in observations.

As for the priest - it's measured in souls,
And for each medic it's counted in bowels.

For common mystic it's in divinations.
What of the killer? In annihilations.

For simple writer it's in the novels,
For complex digger it's in the shovels.

For undertaker this one's in corpse,
For the oculist this one's in orbs.

It's in new places for endless strollers
And for all merchants all in the dollars.

And for the army it's in the wars ...
Now do you see where successful one goes?

And for the planet it's in the us.
Want be successful? See where this goes?

Or will prefer not to race for success,
Driving as madman, always in stress?

Spirit success now is being so rare ...
Poem's successful ... what do I care?

When one is set in own path
He will escape all crowd's mass,
And will be ready for the fight
With own demons of the blight.

He will prevail after all,
But pay a costly, dire toll,
That toll will be his former life ...
He shall destroy it in the strife.

The flame of heart may break one's night,
The flame of heart destroys the blight,
The flame of heart is endless fire,
The flame of heart is your desire.

My word is blade and song is shield,
And I'm still fighting on the field
In some eternal, endless war ...
That fight is fierce - but what for?

I cannot flee, I cannot run,
My armor glistens under sun,
And blood now feeds the earth below ...
I am, like others, one in row.

My throat is dry, my thoughts all spin,
And hope to end the fight is thin,
It won't extinguish by itself -
For I am fighting with myself.

My mind is helmet for the head,
My heart is armor in the red,
And as the drops of blood now burn
That heart is ready for its turn.

My heart is afire, engulfed in flame,
My heart is afire - and yet just the same,
My heart is afire wherever I go,
My heart is afire - and let it be so.

The webs of past are thick to hack,
And maze of life is cold and dark,
There are no torches on its walls ...
You wander by without goals.

Ancestors’ bones all lie below ...
You'll end like them, of this you know.
What is the meaning of your road?
You are destined to die and rot.

The slime on walls became your food -
It is edible, but no good,
The veil of darkness is your cloak,
And heart resembles walls of rock.

The pits on floor possess no threat -
To fall in them you will be glad,
And with this maze you've formed band ...
But you're still standing where you stand.

The walls of past are thick to hack,
But you will have to make a brack
And to destroy them once for all ...
For this is only worthy goal.

My words may help you on this path ...
I am not first, I am not last,
For your new life I am the lawyer,
But some still see me as destroyer.

And when it's cold, and when it's dark,
I may become short-living spark ...
From time to time, when need is dire,
I shall become a Purifier.

I'll burn to dust those foul webs,
I'll kill all spiders with sword's stabs,
I shall become a distant light
Who guides to exit, shining bright.

And when the maze is left behind,
Screw up your eyes to not be blind,
For rising sun you'll see on fore ...
And from this time I'll be no more.

А слоны не умеют летать -
Их не манит прекрасное небо,
Все слоны не умеют летать -
И не жаждут духовного хлеба,

Эх, слоны не умеют летать -
Не парить и не виться средь туч им,
Да, слоны не умеют летать -
С детских лет мы об этом все учим.

Вот, слоны не умеют летать -
Только люди о том позабыли,
Все ж слоны не умеют летать -
Как же раньше без крыльев мы жили?

Но слоны не умеют летать -
Крыльев нет, а хвосты не в почете,
О, слоны не способны летать -
Ну когда же вы это поймете?

Что ж, слоны не способны летать -
Все грузны так, медлительны слишком,
Коль слоны не способны летать -
Не летать вместе с ними и мишкам.

Раз слоны не способны летать -
Может быть, слишком много в них весу?
Ух, слоны не способны летать -
Ни к реке, ни к горе и ни к лесу!

Ну, слоны не способны летать -
А как людям то знанье поможет?
Хоботистым подобны слонам
В мире "сильных" я вижу вновь рожи.

Про слонов, не способных летать,
С неба птица мне снова пропела ..
Коль слоны не способны летать -
Птицей стать уж Душа захотела!

Возможен лишь один Исток,
К нему однажды всяк пророк
Свой взор духовный устремлял
И план небесный созерцал.

Я не такой, как все они -
В свои млады телесны дни
Уже не молод духом я ...
Хоть мне и ведома заря,

Хоть знаю суть я вдохновенья,
И хоть вперед, без сожаленья
Спешу к Рожденью много лет,
Но не пророк, увы, я, нет.

Я лишь беззвучный проводник ...
Когда-то свет в меня проник,
И так беспечно с этих пор
Я приношу вам манну с гор,

И много лет с тех давних пор
Веду я с небом разговор,
Огня божественный поток
Дает мне сил для новых строк.

Я разобью свою тюрьму,
Огня крещенье я приму,
Чтоб был раскрыт небесный дар
Я наношу по ней удар.

Я разобью никчемны прутья!
Тюрьмы своей ведь понял суть я.
Я разнесу ее в клочки,
Огнем пылали чтоб зрачки.

О, я не автор этих строк -
Какой мне в этом был бы прок,
Какой мне смысл от всего?
Я проводник лишь для Него.

Я безымянный проводник ...
От вас на время скрыл я лик,
И в глубине ночной тиши
Пишу я только для Души.

Внутри себя возжечь чтоб свет
Проводника принят обет,
Еще не мало минет лет ...
Но я не автор строк, о нет.

Чтоб выпить жизни чистой сок,
Чтоб вдохновенья жил весь ток,
Приму огня Души поток ...
Нет, не я автор этих строк.