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Once Aron was born in France, in Paris,
In an official family as Franςois- Marie.
A literary world was closer to his
Soul. Don’t confuse him with Walter that’s Henri.

He began his literary path in aristocrats’
House, covering  with mockery, satires—
For this then he joined the number of expats,
His annual income was twenty thousand Lires.

He did live in England for three years
Never to be forgotten, studying poems, prose.
But then Voltaire belonged to that sort of persons
Who could not find his moorage in Britain, of course.

And thus he lived: wandering, returning,
France’s spirit lured him as before. He was
So tired for many years of wandering,
And bought the estate in Geneva’s outskirts.

And Voltaire settled there living in
Boarding- houses off noble ladies, nobles’
All kinds, his income was grey, although he knew laws,
And was admitted to monarchs their match being.

And when at eighty he came back to Paris,
And there he passed to his rest further,
In Paris you can never avoid love’s bliss,
Here lived Voltaire, a poet, a philosopher.
{2019}    

ВОЛЬТЕР

Родился Аруэ во Франции, в Париже.
В чиновничьей семье как Франсуа-Мари.
Литературы мир ему был права ближе.
Не путайте его с Вальтером, что Анри!

Литературный путь в домах аристократов
Он начал проходить с насмешек и сатир –
За это он примкнул потом к числу экспатов,
И годовой доход был двести тысяч лир!

Он в Англии прожил три незабвенных года:
Политику, стихи и прозу изучал.
Но таковой была вольтерова порода,
Что не обрёл тогда в Британии причал.

И жил он так: скитаясь-возвращаясь:
Дух Франции его по-прежнему манил.
За многие года он так устал, скитаясь:
В Женеве как-то раз имение купил.

И там осел Вольтер, живя на пансионах
От благородных дам и всяческих вельмож.
И серый был доход, хоть ведал он в законах –
Равнее равных ты, когда к монархам вхож!

Но в восемьдесят лет вернулся он в столицу.
И там он опочил потом на склоне лет.
В Париж нельзя никак, приехав, не влюбиться!
Здесь жил Вольтер – философ и поэт!
{11.11.2019}

Translator - I. Toporov
Religion is the ****** of the people.—Karl Marx
Religion is the dopiate of the sheeple.—Michael R. Burch

Raise your words, not their volume.
Rain grows flowers, not thunder.
—Rumi, translation by Michael R. Burch

To write an epigram, cram.
If you lack wit, scram!
—Michael R. Burch

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, translation by Michael R. Burch

Little sparks may ignite great flames.
—Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch

Hypocrisy may deceive the most perceptive adult, but the dullest child recognizes and is revolted by it, however ingeniously disguised.
—Leo Tolstoy, translation by Michael R. Burch

Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel,
or a house when it's time to change residences,
even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.
—Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch
Connor Aug 2019
Since the dawn of time,
Man has striven to understand
Why we exist and
How we were created.
We have formulated various
Answers to these burning questions
That are scorched in the minds of men.
An omniscient creator who lives up above,
Powerful beings that run everything from
Weather to fire to death to doors;
An explosion that created all that is known.
It is hard for men to comprehend something other than what
Has been taught to them;
Even those who believe in near indistinguishable concepts
Argue about the little details rather than banding together.
It is the duty of a government to allow this
Despite the unpalatable aspect of it.
We must allow individuals to have their own teachings;
Personal attachments must not come in the way of equality.
We must turn to our neighbors and voice,
"I do not agree with a word you say,
But I will defend to the death
Your right to say it."
We must embrace each other like distant relatives,
We must come together when the sun goes down,
Until dawn comes once more.
A poem I get to write for my history class this year. I enjoy it way more than I should lol
David W Clare Jan 2015
I love Francois Marie Aoret Voltaire's
wit and stunning impertinence...

"Whatever is too stupid to be said gets sung!"

Voltaire 1694-1778

(I hadn't noticed...)

— The End —