A Russian bard,
a brilliant romantic.
His eyes were of azure, he styled short waves of golden,
simple but with an attraction, something in that smile of his.
Known as Sergey throughout his country,
he wrote, composed from dark to dawn.
No stopping in his spirits,
the man believed to satisfy himself, his own.
And yet his works, his art of words, they could not soar,
the beauty he imagined could never reach its path.
Locked in a cage without escape,
no room to breathe his melancholy breath.
Regime declined him,
it found his writings unsuitable for all their chilling eyes.
His mind could not grasp their stares and threats.
Sergey loved his country all too well, adored it till the end.
His wings they tried to flap and seek a gap.
The bard, he found one soon enough.
He traveled far across the hungry, deep, blue sea.
The seagulls, masters of the sky, they mesmerized him to disremember all.
Lasting troubles, they disappeared just like the morning fog.
The poet had arrived, his destination at his palms,
a country with a calling, new array of hope.
Though days they passed and slipped away.
He spent them like a different man,
got lost in drunken nights and beautiful seduction.
It was not the poet’s saving but yet his breaking.
The bard Sergey, he left that sunny plain.
Pursued out of his close destruction,
that reared him farther from perfection.
And met did he his only land,
it welcomed him in precious silence.
The poet’s favorite field of grass, it swayed so gently to itself,
every blade and strip revived him by the natural smell of home.
Mellow whisper of the wind calmed down his rapid heart,
he laid his body down into the bed of green,
surrounded by trees so giant they touched the moonlit heavens.
The romantic that he was, he felt ease only in his nature’s arms.
His only talisman, believed him, felt him, lived him,
saved him from the critics that feed upon his weary flesh.
And still he wrote, composed from sunrise to sundown.
The bard, he said farewell to summer in rhymes that danced with melodies of night.
He slept and dreamt of autumn’s coming, a forest filled of gold.