Poet (wrote by Bulat Okudzhava)
A poet has no rivals,
neither in life or in destiny.
And when he cries out to the world,
it’s not about you, but about himself!
He raises his fragile arms up to heaven,
he loses, drop by drop, life and strength;
he pines away, he asks forgiveness…
He doesn’t do it for you, but for himself!
But when he reaches the end
and his soul takes flight in the darkness
— the field just crossed, the labour just concluded —,
you decide: for what and for who!
Either be the honey, or be the bitter cup,
either be the infernal fire, or be the temple…
All that was his, is yours now.
All is for you. Dedicated to you!
There is hardly anyone on this world more self-indulgent, self-absorbed and self-deceptive than an artist. Whatever he does he does it for himself, because of him, in relation to his point of view, his reading of the world around. He’s an eternal loner, no matter how ‘sociable’ he appears… An artist can have a crowd of people ready to die for him from love and an admiration, he can engage deeply into passionate, intimate relationships, he can possess a great charisma and be able to change people’ lives simply by ‘touching’ them with his character… But – in a very moment of creation he is and will always be alone, just as we are alone facing death… If there is anything that gives him a moral right to exist in this way, to paint, compose, sign, write, play – is that ‘when he reaches the end’ ‘all what was his, is yours now – all is for you. Dedicated to you!’
Beautiful… and so true.
Originally uploaded to the Youtube by Velodelsis. I hope, you don’t mind and thank you for that shared beauty.