Today it's not the flesh — the spirit is laid bare.
Man longs in desperation.
He strives to leave the darkness for the light,
protesting and rebelling once he's there.
Through non-belief he's dry and burned,
he tolerates what man should never bear,
aware at every step that he is ruined, not trying
to attain that faith for which he's always yearned.
The door stays closed though he may grieve.
He'll never offer prayers nor tears.
He'll never call, «My God, admit me, for I do have faith!
Come to my aid, for I cannot believe!»
Не плоть, а дух растлился в наши дни,
И человек отчаянно тоскует...
Он к свету рвется из ночной тени
И, свет обретши, ропщет и бунтует.
Безверием палим и иссущен,
Невыносимое он днесь выносит...
И сознает свою погибель он,
И жаждет веры — но о ней не просит...
Не скажет ввек, с молитвой и слезой,
Как ни скорбит перед замкнутой дверью:
«Впусти меня! — Я верю, Боже мой!
Приди на помощь моему безверью!..»
«Here's the ash is so hot in kind, / It will burn hard — breathe, touch, remember... / Don't cry while stepping over it and hide / Your tears, before future ash don't tremble...»
«All friends are saying: "All is good / To save from evil, rage one part of Tragedy, / One part of your soul, as thruth..." / But who has said that to divide I'm able? And how could I hide my passion in a half, / Without notion of it to be the passion? / How could I give to people only ...»
«Good poems torment me much, / Bad ones — are nice without reason: / They can't sting souls, nor they bite, / They have the warmth of home, isn't it? So — that's a real lemonad, of course, / (They're light, as a silk morning gown). / And qeniuse ones takes minute to concern, oh... ...»
«Since that time when the highest court / Had given me the prophet's vision, / In eyes of men I always caught / The images of sin and treason. Then I began to promulgate / The clear love's and truth's commandment: / At me all humans threw for that / Hard sticks and stones, like the madme...»