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So you were born, a helpless man,
Who would be strange for now and then,
And who would not be understood
By parents in his childhood,
Who would soon start to feel as so
He's one of soldiers in the row
Without mind, without heart,
All struggling to escape this, but...
But it will be in aftertime -
And we return to what is prime.
You were a child, small and funny,
Who learned how to cry for mummy,
Whose world was in her lips and hands
With no idea where it ends.
But years passed, and you grew strong,
And found soon that you were wrong,
And found world ahead of you
Along with things, not much, not few,
Along with men, all old indeed,
Not knowing where it will you lead,
Now knowing how you will soon feel
In being someone other's meal,
In being someone other's toy
As they but mock and laugh in joy,
For they have found you as "strange"
When you appeared in the range,
When you refused to play with them,
When you showed no respect to Sam,
When you was almost all alone
Within your own thoughts and tone.
Man-in-itself in all the aspects,
Without need for fame and respects,
Without wish to behave so...
Not like a soldier in the row.
Oh, boy, not soon you understood
That it was not for bad, but good,
That it was like a road's stone
For no one said there would be none,
For no one said there was no price
For understanding of such size,
For possibility to grow
Not sacrificing to The Row.
Комментарии к книге «Записки Безымянного [поэзия]», Прохор Озорнин (Тимонг Лайтбрингер)
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