The Moon's disc of an orange colour
an` unmoved clouds look like a fringe –
there hangs a July midnight picture
and twinkles on the walls the dark.
Where are you, our unseen artist?
While never-ending supplication
you put a canvas on your easel,
unheard invisible creator.
You're here after day's disorder
establish beauty in the world –
you ever take bright colours softly
and throw them into emptiness.
As if it is a fortune's hostage –
a prisoner waits for his death –
at the eternity there stands the tripod,
there shines the Moon, and wax there burns.
(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/