Lions

To my eldest. Zhenya, thank you. The lost gaze of a face from beyond the mirror. A long, drawn sigh. Light from the deep. Something has changed, and I've become someone else, it seems. And I don't feel the slightest guilt. I feel nothing. As if the surgeon numbed The aching nerve before he pulled it out. One… and gone. And besides a will of iron — Just one roaring lion on the cliff. Swallowing decay, above the mirror's surface, Feeling freedom and peace. He stands and, relishing his power, Slowly shakes his head. Master of himself and every moment, Of the pulse that throbs in his temples. Never caught in gossip or intrigue. Holds the peace with other lions in his hands. Stop and give up? You could. But after that, How would you roar so fiercely from on high? How would you look the guys around you in the eye? Lie down, saying: hold the fool.. It's fine, others do lie down Beneath others, hoping for a rest. If you're a lion with muscles of steel, You can keep on benching, even lying down. Strength — for sure. And brains aplenty. Look into the smeared solution of silver. A day will come — there'll be payment for it all. If they shortchange you badly — wish them well. So, lion, wash your face with water, Let weariness and dirt go down the drain, Along with dirt that, leaving others' faces, Turns to delight for lions just the same.