To The Epoch Of Unbowed Poets
The day will come: a granite gait of Fortune
Will grow high on your endless way,
Touch your forehead and with a firm verdict
Will hold you in its ruthless circle.
In distance there is blueness, fire, glowing, smoke.
A red roar of elements, boundlessness of craving and freedom.
But you will only harness your predatory gaze into a cart
In military glamour, far there, on the horizon.
When you feel that your proud, outstretched power
Is being curbed by the stone-feet Fate,
That your step is crumbling - it's a soul's last outcry.
Send off where ways to you not given rush
Where, believe it, once again your harnessed dreams
Will resound beyond the limits sometime.
