автор: stir

превод:

He always sits at ends, and has a scar above his brow.
He might be tall, but even then the lonely man is small.

He gathers herbs, or with the adz of memories he carves,
if he is unemployed - and bears his blanket knit of rags.

A horse`s head lights up a field and the lonely man
would simply go and look - and not wish that it had a mane.

When everybody else is yelling and discussing art
the lonely man would catch and free some flies for most his part.

But should he write a verse, then he is sure to leave behind
a single tear-drop in your eyes, an imprint in your mind...

He has a home, a dinner but his life is so much shut,
a cast-out chest that lingers in the corner of a hut.

And should somehow this home upturn, the tiles facing down,
the ashes he will eat, but will not beg, nor turn around.

What iron and what fierce fire wrought the lonely man -
a lot of wine you have to drink with him to understand.

Just as he`s walking with a stain upon his cleanly shirt,
into the crowd the lonely man would disappear first.

A book he carries with one hand to soothe his tender soul,
but with the other clutches to a cord beneath his cloak.

оригинал