Valery Bryusov
To Damascus

My lips approaching
        Your lips,
Mysteries happening again,
        And the world like a temple.

We, like priests,
        Create the rite.
Sternly in the great abode,
        Words resound.

Angels, falling prostrate,
        Sing the troparion.
The stars — sanctuary lamps alight,
        And the night — an altar.

What draws us to the inevitable,
        As steel is drawn to a magnet?
We breathe lust and tenderness,
        But the sight is shut.

We are captives in the swirl
        Of last caresses.
There it is, by the century appointed,
        Our way to Damascus!

Translated by Linda Southby