Formula. Collection of Poetry. Part 2.

Life is a Search of Formulas. It is not axiomatic. Because it is a Theorem. But what is our Choice? For our own Formulas are, as it is said, subjective... So, are You ready to continue the Search? Or You are satisfied with a Formula?...
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Дата публикации: 2013-07-28
Страниц: 92

Sacrifice of the Artist Under the Dome of the ancient Temple an Artist Painted beautiful Faces in Oblivion - But languished by the Spirit, yearning for Power, That he only anticipated, but had not yet learnt. And for the sake of such a Cognition he decided Once from the Tops come down to Earth, And he set off alone by touch in the World, In order to find finally Might in this Life. The Spirit whispered to him: "That's right! Come on! Do not be afraid, because Fear - it is the same Canon In which you created the Faces, not being awaken, And saw a Dream by the Others seen! " "You will find yourself by the free Will, Whose unprecedented Image will create in Reveal - And you will live with him, his Happiness and Pain, And by a Sacrifice pay tribute for the Serving!.. " And the Artist took his Brush in a new, Creating by Intuition something on his own - The Fantasy here after the mysterious Word Like a mighty Stream sings the Ode in it: About the Rocks, burning by the Fire of Gems, About the Darkness, that dissolves the Light in itself, About the Lust, stewed in the Guise of an Ascetic, About the inexorable, cruel Fate. So Demon appeared to him at last, By the fathomless Pupils looking up at his Eyes - And bound Hands by a tenacious Obsession, From now on driving them in the Way in behind him. Since then, the Artist lived, creating continuously - Shocking the World, towering in the Work, He became a Master, daring and strong, Giving his Sacrifice to a Beauty only... And the Demon in Figures rose from Oblivion - Love gave himself up and was soaring in the Steep Slopes - In Flesh and Blood, in Melody and Singing, He enthroned his Pride over the Earth.

He demanded of Eternity, Power and Glory, He wanted to reign over all that lives: Above that, in Dust lie defenseless and weak, Over what calls Help for Mercy. Once the Artist wrote publicly, Wanting to approve his Greatness: The unseen Framework of a huge Painting According to the Plan was to embody the Dream. But after the continuous, sleepless Proceedings, To which he gave all the Forces to the Drops, He pulled back, looking at the Masterpiece struck: The Fallen Demon laid before the Eyes!.. And so the Fate rolled back at once, Revenging for the Past by a Striking Punishment, Requiring from the Artist a terrible Sacrifice Leading the Greatness to Humiliation once again. A Child of the Creator - the long-awaited Fruit of Love - By the Eyes was like a Demon from the lovely Paintings: Marked by a torn, non-closed Lip, He died prematurely - in Silence, alone. The Mind of the Masters fell with the Will, Orders were gone and "Friends" disappeared, He could not write anything more - Only dreamed about the Past and blinded on the Eyes. In the Moments of Epiphany he had dreamed about Faces, That now he saw more clearly - Inaudibly sighing about the Great Sacrifice In the sparkling Darkness of faceted Stones... Жертва Художника Под Куполом древнего Храма Художник Прекрасные Лики в Забвенье писал, – Но Духом томился, тоскуя о Мощи, Что только предчувствовал, но не познал. И ради Познанья такого решился Однажды с Вершины на Землю сойти, И в Мир, одинокий, наощупь пустился,

Чтоб Мощь наконец в этой Жизни найти. И Дух прошептал ему: «Правильно! Ну же! Не бойся, ведь Страх – это тот же Канон В котором ты Лики творил, неразбужен, И видел Другими увиденный Сон!» «Себя обретёшь ты Свободною Волей, Чей Образ невиданный в Яви создашь – И жить будешь с ним, его Счастьем и Болью, и Жертвой ему за Служенье воздашь!..» И взялся Художник за Кисти по-новой, Творя Интуицией нечто Своё – Фантазия вслед за мистическим Словом Могучим Потоком в нём Оду поёт: О Скалах, горящих Огнём Самоцветов, О Мраке, что Свет растворяет в себе, О Жажде Томленья в Личине Аскета, О неумолимой, жестокой Судьбе. Так Демон явился ему наконец-то, Зрачками бездонными в Очи глядя – И Руки сковал Одержимостью цепкой, Отныне их в Путь за собою ведя. С тех пор жил Художник, творя непрерывно, – Шокируя Мир, возвышаясь в Труде, Он Мастером стал дерзновенным и сильным, Даря свою Жертву одной Красоте... И Демон в Рисунках восстал из Забвенья – Любви предавался и в Кручах парил – Во Плоти и Крови, в Мелодии, в Пенье Гордыню свою над Землёй воцарил. Он Вечности требовал, Власти и Славы Хотел безраздельно над всем, что живёт: Над тем, что в Пыли, беззащитно и слабо, Над тем, что на Помощь Пощаду зовёт. Однажды Художник писал принародно, Желая Величье своё утвердить: Невиданный Остов Картины огромной По Замыслу должен был Сон воплотить.


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