My mother (22 November 1899)


darkness descended, fogs fraught.
Night winter dull and the heart is not alien.
Siry embraces the spirit of labor impotence,
yearning peace, any loss of.

How do you keep track, than the soul is sick,
AND, Dear friend, than uvrachuesh wounds?
neither you, neither I through the winter fog
We can not ripen, what longing is strong.

And our minds whether to believe, what once
For someone's sin upon us the yoke imposed?
Both the quiet melancholy, and us to the earth oppresses
powerless labor, obscure loss?

22 November 1899

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Alexander Blok
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