Two sides of life, within a ring,
merge in a deathly swirl of round,
and someone music plays, they swing,
the faceless wears a crimson gown.
One can’t define who is in power,
where is the dark, where is the light?
The reddish passion is in flower.
One can’t extinguish fire of fight.
The music sounds, the passion lances.
Who made this festive world of dance?
The lonely will is taking chances.
Where is the end of an ecstatic trance?
Feels malice the musician more an` more,
the dancers’ movements getting loose,
and keys of nights an` days during the course
beat out a rhythm and give the blues.
(translated from Russian)
My page on a Russian site: http://www.stihi.ru/avtor/boreaus
There is a war on for your mind: http://www.infowars.com/