I live in a remote skete
In days, when falling sheets.
I go out - and I stand on the bridge,
And I look at the river flowers.
Here - a premonition of a white winter:
Silence bell tower…
And, that now read psalms, –
so nun, right, dies.
Beginningless free expanse,
Too good news breathing,
He came - and covered the Psalms,
And in the pages remained shower.
Like a candle, it is burning out,
Around the face smiling sorrow.
Came the words from the box,
But through the windows of the distance…
We swam two white flower -
This lightweight matte-hand…
I clear virgin close
In the golden autumn separations…
But I live in a distant monastery
And I do not know the boundaries for happiness.
Silence see off dream.
And the dream of erecting the Queen.
January 1905
