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