Curse of the century it's a rush...
The curse of the century is haste, and a man, wiping off sweat, rushes through life like a pawn, caught up in time pressure.
They drink hastily, they love hastily, and the soul descends. They hastily beat, hastily destroy, and then they repent, hastening.
But at least once in the world, when he sleeps or boils, stop like a horse in soap, sensing the gap at the hooves.
Stop halfway trust the sky as a judge, think - if not about God - at least just about yourself.
Under the rustle of decaying leaves, under the locomotive's hoarse scream understand: the one who runs away is pathetic, stopped – great.
Sweeping away the dust of vanity and vanity, finally remember eternity and holy indecision will pour into your feet like lead.
There is strength in indecision when on the wrong path forward to the false luminaries you hesitate to go.
Trampling on someone's face like leaves, stop! You are blind, like Viy. And the best chance to stop Do not kill with the madness of haste.
When you walk briskly towards your goal, like steps, bodies, stop, you who have forgotten God, you walk on your own!
When anger pushes you to the oblivion of your own soul, to the dishonor of a shot and a word, don't rush, don't do it!
Stop walking blindly O population of the Earth! Freeze, flying from a Colt bullet, and a bomb is in the air, freeze!
O man whose name is holy, lifting your eyes up in prayer, amidst decay and depravity stop, stop!
