Mirra Lokhvitskaya
The Seraphim

I

Gorged for a time with bloody slaughter,
Both servants and valorous hero are weary
And enter the dome of God’s dwelling.
Where candles glimmer at the Master’s feet,
And from the basilica’s walls, with gentle smiles,
Gaze the blissful faces of the Seraphim.

II

The weary executioner has dozed for an instant.
The hung victim’s frenzy grows.
A beaten body quivers on the rack,
No limit to these slow tortures is seen.
But there, above the earth, above this pitch darkness,
Soar the Seraphim with innocent smiles.

III

With a deep “in pace” lacking strength and will,
A nun beats against the stones of a grave.
The echo of heavenly songs is heard
In that cold pit, with rats and mold.
But beyond — with the organ’s roar, unseen in clouds of incense,
“Hosanna, Hosanna!” sing the Seraphim.

Translated by Temira Pachmuss