Poets, like manure.
A dossier on each about himself.
Each one’s weapon is visible,
It is unserious or it hits painfully.

It troubled the author, so he wrote,
The reader is indifferent, but for him — a volcano.
From the depths of the subconscious he learned, came to know
How to achieve, avoiding wounds.

Report less to headquarters.
Whether they praise or condemn — the point is not that,
But whether he managed to become a human,
To return home a grown man.