And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, In the cool nursery of the young century.
You thought I was that type: That you could forget me,
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave, not sticks of burning incense.
Celebrate our anniversary - can't you see tonight the snowy night of our first winter
I pray to the sunbeam from the window - It is pale, thin, straight.
And the town is frozen solid in a vice, Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass.
How can you bear to look at the Neva? How can you bear to cross the bridges?.
I taught myself to live simply and wisely, to look at the sky and pray to God,
Why is this age worse than earlier ages? In a stupor of grief and dread
Do not cry for me, Mother, seeing me in the grave. I
And the stone word fell On my still-living breast.
Under her dark veil she wrung her hands. "Why are you so pale today?"
That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye,
Lying in me, as though it were a white Stone in the depths of a well, is one
And the just man trailed God's shining agent, over a black mountain, in his giant track,
You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim
I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear
Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
So many stones have been thrown at me, That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
Everything's looted, betrayed and traded, black death's wing's overhead.
And I grew up in patterned tranquillity, In the cool nursery of the young century.
You thought I was that type: That you could forget me,
Here is my gift, not roses on your grave, not sticks of burning incense.
Celebrate our anniversary - can't you see tonight the snowy night of our first winter
I pray to the sunbeam from the window - It is pale, thin, straight.
And the town is frozen solid in a vice, Trees, walls, snow, beneath a glass.
How can you bear to look at the Neva? How can you bear to cross the bridges?.
I taught myself to live simply and wisely, to look at the sky and pray to God,
Why is this age worse than earlier ages? In a stupor of grief and dread
Do not cry for me, Mother, seeing me in the grave. I
And the stone word fell On my still-living breast.
Under her dark veil she wrung her hands. "Why are you so pale today?"
That day, in Moscow, a true prophecy, when for the last time I say goodbye,
Lying in me, as though it were a white Stone in the depths of a well, is one
And the just man trailed God's shining agent, over a black mountain, in his giant track,
You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim
I hear the oriole's always-grieving voice, And the rich summer's welcome loss I hear
Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness.
So many stones have been thrown at me, That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
Everything's looted, betrayed and traded, black death's wing's overhead.