God himself is his best creation,
A delusion so sublime,
It's comfort in pain,
Deemed as a symphony of insane.

You had sunshine
In your eyes
but
I was looking
For the moon

secrets, secrets, secrets
one must not tell,
upon the horizon lies a mysterious girl,
seraphic.
or angelic i must say,
for what i’d do to make you come my way.

Freedom from rhyme, to hell with the beat,
Forgetting the meaning, the soul's in deceit.
Deceived by the crowd, now a slave to it all,
The Lyre abandoned, few poets stand tall.
A world of hack writers — fools' joy, they will thrive.
"What’s Sense for sheeps?" — to serve Vile and contrive.
And for distraction, petty verse is the deal.
A world in decay, where Reason grows still.


In Russian:

Упадок поэзии

Свобода от рифмы
И к чёрту все ритмы,
Забвение смысла —
Душа в эго влипла,

Толпою обманута.
Рабынею стала.
Так Лира покинута —
Пиитов уж мало:

Мирок графоманов —
Дебилам услада.
— В чём смысл для баранов?
— Служение гадам.

И для отвлеченья
Ничтожные вирши.
Мирок РАЗЛОЖЕНЬЯ —
В нём Разум всё тише.