Woman-Poet

You think that a woman is writing a verse Above a thick table she’s hastily leaning. But not in the house, in heart humble words, Even in the kitchen while making a dinner. Sometimes she is laughing, sometimes she is sad... and the ringing lines she is threading like gem beads. Sometimes she’s offended, more often forgives, She bends under burdens, but spirit is high. You thought: she lies down and writes poetry, And clever books is what she’s hourly reading... Around her muses, serve in quiet bliss, And with them the soul soars in empiricism... My friend, you are wrong, if only you saw, Where fruits of her thoughts she is tirelessly reaping... In everyday vanity standing by the stove, the laundry she washes she pours with the tears. As in the commotion she quickly, almost on the run in worn notebook puts her words down quickly, Suddenly she throws away sleep and food... Their raises them carefully, carries them keenly. She cherishes them, but can’t fully indeed, Speaks them when she runs across field, on the road: And not for the glory she is scribbling it But quietly into the wild they are flowing. Rejecting all vanity plans of the world, The higher existence by her soul she’s touching, Her verse is begetting Love of Universe, And as for a child, for its fate she is frightened.