Текст песни С. Бухтияров-Орловский - Исповедь

The cycle of poems "Ars Regia"

CONFESSION

How much crowded in the soul of my songs
The poems were blooming with a peacock tail
But my house became crowded
And the house became my prison of inspiration.

An apostate who has devastated the soul
I betrayed my hometown - and here
Since then I accept the fate of a slap in the face,
Like a hungry laurel strolling rhapsody.

A wanderer, driven by the desire for profit! ..
Wrong dream, I was stupidly led.
I didn’t sing from the heart, changed my pseudonyms,
To take away the glory, I neglected shame.

The lie of excuses can hardly help me,
When my descendant says, “Prosler!”
But I'm glad to return from long wanderings -
Lost pita, songwriter, singer.

Since then, having experienced both sadness and excitement,
Knowing anxiety and the pretense of the gods,
Submissively I endured the Euterpe captivity
And I am glad not to have any other debts.

Yes, let it be wounded fate unfriendly -
From now on, forever and ever convinced:
The more often I dreamed of world-wide fame,
Still less poetry was confronted.

S. Bukhtiyarov-Orlovsky
had a hand