«I trusted her, and she cheated on me…»

Игорь КОНДРАТЬЕВ | Поэзия



I trusted her, and she cheated on me.
Her infidelity overwhelms my emotions.
How can I live now? Whom can I love?
For whom I should write love poems?

Last night, I burned in the fireplace
My poems about my love for her.
When the night comes, it’s too painful
To remember how happy we were.

I see little devils in the darkness.
They are laughing at me. They are black as coal.
It’s funny for them that I’m dying of love,
Which brought the evil beast to my soul.

The beast tore my faith in love and loyalty,
And so, my heart is filled with revenge.
I’m trying to find some light in my soul,
But I feel as I’ve neared the abyss’s edge.

And suddenly I’m hearing a haughty voice
Calling to the little devils, and they
Begin to draw a pentagram on the floor.
An uninvited guest is appearing at my door.

The half-moon outside the window
Burst into laughter. It’s craftiness!
The moon lied to me in previous nights
About love, loyalty and happiness.

Meanwhile, the uninvited guest says to me,
“It was your fault to let love in your heart.
I can remember a similar case
With a young poet who wasn’t very smart.

Long years ago, that poet of nineteen
Suffered from love and went to death with rapidity.
He was struck by a bullet in the night duel.
And I was surprised by such stupidity.

Before his suffering, he was very happy,
He danced at balls, his days were full of pleasure.
So, I offered him my help to stop feeling love,
But he refused my help, as if love is a treasure.

Of course, I didn’t insist very hard.
For me, he was one who doesn’t much matter.
However, he could live a long happy life
Without love in his heart. Wouldn’t it be better?”

I’m answering him, “What is all that to me?
Your story is old and some kind pathetic.
It can draw some tears from naive people,
But for me it’s boring and isn’t really poetic.

Times have changed, and duels are all in the past,
We have another concept of honor today.
The romance of the old days is gone already.
Time is running so fast and merciless, I have to say.

So, stories like yours aren’t interesting now.
And discussing of them doesn’t seem very wise.
Oh, I’d like to know, who invited you here
At night just an hour before sunrise?

But no, don’t answer. I’m just realized,
Revenge in my heart opened gates of hell,
And that feeling invited you to my house.
So, I could fall into your trap, as well.

But now I’ll get rid of the desire for revenge.
I’ve lost myself, but I’ll find myself again.
I’ll clean my soul from all evil that came into it,
I’ll not allow my thoughts to be guided by my pain.

It’s enough for me that I saw opened gates of hell
And remnants of my love are corroded by acid of feeling,
That was called jealousy by people ages ago.
But today is a day of my healing.

I have nothing else to talk to you after that.
I’m asking my guardian angel to save me from meetings
With creatures like you, who come to people,
When their hearts are filled with not very good feelings.

About the author:

Igor Kondratiev is a poet. Born on November 30 1969, on an extremely cold day. My village was situated at the merging of two little forest rivers, not far away from a small mine town. The severe Taiga forest became my loving mother, where anything could be possible. At 22 years old I fell in love with a beautiful blue eyed golden haired creature. Shortly after she died, I burnt all of my poems and didn’t write again until 2013.

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