I know the day of my curse,
I ran to my dovremenny skit,
I break from the embrace,
But he - Crossroads guards.
His importunate cries,
the close, somewhere far away, –
And fear, and shame, and the horror of the wild,
And naked longing.
And at the crossroads - a miserable prisoner -
I stumble, I cry…
He beckons with a white mermaid,
He warmly distance candle…
AND, exhausted all, into a trance,
I'm going back to the world again -
On a desperate torment,
On the hopeless love.
13 April 1902
