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Poem By Andrey Bely: To Blok



To Blok
Alone, alone amidst the mountains. Seeking You.
I’m wading aimlessly through ice-cold clouds.
My soul
In deathly mourning.

Now having thrust the rod a’ground, I stand upon a crest.
And though I may be laughing, my soul is brimmed with pain.
Unwillingly, I’m laughing
At this dream of mine.

But oh, how truly heavy sits my diadem of gold!
How tired I feel!.. But still, the distance burns and burns.
Within the nightly distance
My foxhorn calls and calls.

I was among you once. As sunrays filled with gold
The outlandish thunderclouds inside the bright beyonds.
I tried to wake you up then,
But you slept on and on.

I was among you; I was sad, unearthly.
My words resounded everyplace.
While all of you just mocked me,
Laughing to my face.

And so I left. And now…
I am amidst the peaks,
Alone, alone. Awaiting unheralded signs.
Alone, alone remaining
Amidst the misty storms.

All’s as if in flames here.
And it’s only You that I’m awaiting.
Again, I aimlessly outstretch my hand.
My soul, my soul’s
In deathly mourning.
– September 1901, Moscow

From behind the distant peaks
An enlightened groom appears.
He was standing quite alone,
Ascended far above the earth.

Came the news, more than once,
Of a terrestrial ruler’s arrival.
And in a pre-morning hour,
Again prophecies burst into flames.

Just a lone stream of light
Through the thunderclouds rose, over mountains…
Like a prophet, it stood right there,
So mighty and free, dressed in scarlet…

Here it comes. And this very crown
Reflects the dawn’s crimson radiance.
This – crowned Taurus, he is
God and founder of some new existence.
– May 1901, Moscow

I am fated for silence.
And why must I talk?
Won’t forget how to suffer.
Won’t get tired of love.

We’re evoked
Without finish…
It is time we depart…
They’re carrying scarlet
Beside four thorny crowns.

Filled with flames
And with love
Is my dying, my wandering stare…
O, come close to my side –
All sprawled out, and in blood,
I lay still at the foot of the mountains.
How I burst into trembling right above the abyss,
And then dropped to the valley, where a little stream sings.
When a hefty stone, with a whistle
Suddenly knocked me aground –
And this hefty stone, with a whistle,
Battered my temple right down.

Now at rest in the fields of May-lilies –
I’m a flower agape, filled with blood –
And no longer heaving in torture,
My chest that’s at last grown cold.

Don’t leave me, my friend
Don’t forget me!..
– 1903, Moscow

Andrey Bely


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