I live here, like a fly, tortured,
But who could part
This thin, webbish,
Indivisible thread?

I don’t step into a dual
With a thousand-handed spider,
I tear the web with my teeth,
Trying to get out covertly.

And half-dead,
I half-flutter,
Still search for a living occupation,
Still look for rescue. 

Maybe, a human finger
Will tear this web,
Will crumble me and maim me,
And take everything to the sky. 
 

They’ll Shoot Me On the Border 

They’ll shoot me on the border, 
The border of my conscience, 
My blood will flood the pages,
That they thus worried friends. 

When the road disappears
Between bristling mountains,
The friends forgive too much and
Carry out a soft condemnation.

But there exist territorial posts
On the service of a personal dream, as
They watch through age-old
Failure, pain and egotism.

When in the cowardly commotion
I’ll walk up to the terrifying zone,
They take aim dutifully
While I’m in their sight.

When I’ll walk into this zone
That’s not my own—of another country,
They’ll act in accordance with the law,
The law of our side. 

And in order to shorten the torture,
To probably die,
I’m placed into my own hands,
The hands of the optimal sniper.