To birds and to poets the Lord all their sustenance gives:
I dont reap or sow, but for a second year I exist.
And for kind song-poems the people whore also kind
Will forgive your errors and sins, too, if any they find.
Who needs the art now? Who needs it - I do not know,
But to me its air, and I keep singing so.
And radiant someone - not Russian, Estonian - stranger -
An angel of God? Follows me and protects me from danger.
In art he believes, and to me he is brimming with love:
'Be yourself, poet: Sing all your songs, stay alive!'
And like a poor bird, poet is glad of alms in his plight...
O luminous brother, I sing you with song of delight!