No people are uninteresting. <br />Their fate is like the chronicle of planets. <br /> <br />Nothing in them in not particular, <br />and planet is dissimilar from planet. <br /> <br />And if a man lived in obscurity <br />making his friends in that obscurity <br />obscurity is not uninteresting. <br /> <br />To each his world is private <br />and in that world one excellent minute. <br /> <br />And in that world one tragic minute <br />These are private. <br /> <br />In any man who dies there dies with him <br />his first snow and kiss and fight <br />it goes with him. <br /> <br />There are left books and bridges <br />and painted canvas and machinery <br />Whose fate is to survive. <br /> <br />But what has gone is also not nothing: <br />by the rule of the game something has gone. <br />Not people die but worlds die in them. <br /> <br />Whom we knew as faulty, the earth's creatures <br />Of whom, essentially, what did we know? <br /> <br />Brother of a brother? Friend of friends? <br />Lover of lover? <br /> <br />We who knew our fathers <br />in everything, in nothing. <br /> <br />They perish. They cannot be brought back. <br />The secret worlds are not regenerated. <br /> <br />And every time again and again <br />I make my lament against destruction.<br /><br />Yevgeny Yevtushenko<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/people-32/
