Memory of August Strindberg
Yes, I am acquainted with all the flour,
Greedily dreaming about the end…
But no! stopped hands,
I live - with sadness on her face…
Spring wandered through the cemetery
And the little mound found.
Let the unknown grave
Learn all, than I lived!
I brought flowers favorite
By the grave at sunset…
But someone walks, He walks past
And he looks at me.
And this view is met by chance,
I read the note in it…
Not, I'm alone in the whole world!..
I turned away and went.
Or my kind of inspires pity?
Or like him
Sad face fatigue?
Or just bored - one?..
Not, I'd rather shut my eyes:
on slender, on melancholy; let be
Do not lie between him and me
connecting sadness…
but I feel: it behind
costs, he came in focus…
Him I angry speeches
I am already getting ready to fight back, –
And suddenly, with painful efforts,
Barely audible voice he says:
"ABOUT, do not panic. Here in the grave
My child buried ".
I apologized, expressing
Sadness tilt head;
And he, sending flowers,
He said: "Bouquet of forget you". –
"I Flowers in memory of the meeting with you
Give your child…»
is he, cold shrug,
He said: "They need you".
Yes, I vinyus his mistake,
But… I will not forgive until death (not!)
That condescending smile,
With that he looked after me!
August 1914
