The Lord breathed, and the soul became living,
With the air, rhyme brought ozone,
Filled reality with meaning, with beauty —
It is pleasant to surrender to it as a captive.

A factory of verses is not an end in itself.
They don’t force themselves to breathe, after all.
In the cups of thoughts, the hops of poetry,
They keep like nectar, they do not shake it.

Sources of inspiration are many.
Someone may say that I speculate —
Each must choose their own,
I breathe verses, I do not fabricate them.