I have translated sonnets in a week
As chrism was spilled or moved “like on the butter.”
He showed there all nooks and soul’s back streets
and they are all magnificent and shining.
He was self-confident in the begining,
and he turned very touching-crying then,
in the end, so ironic without grieving,
and passionate, leading a fire-game.
He appeared to me on the eighth sonnet,
And his rendition was very sublime,
his voice was very slow and assertive,
Raising on the lines’ end – itself “delight”.
And he was great, as our First Tsar Peter
with a big pointing finger – designate,
and very hard and sharp in every gesture,
in a brown coat like a monument.
They say that Shakespeare is not religious,
but no, he has his god, I must confess.
It’s poetry, which conquers Death as weakness.
And as a poet I say to it – YES.
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