Well done, 

You dug you teacher a grave, 

Pushed him in and buried

With you cheap creation   

 

Erected a grave mound

Out of your poetry, 

Wrote the stupidest of forced lines 

On his tomb stone

 

But his teaching comprehended you not 

He did warn you,

Only then shall your write 

When lines strangle your throat  

 

I am not to blame for the judgment 

That will be, nor is the crowd of friends;

Time with a broom will sweep over them

And tell the real value.

 

Without mercy will Time erase names

And spare only one trace.

The blind eternal poet with no homeland

Will pass through its sieve.