Zinaida Gippius
The Seamstress

For three days now I’ve spoken with no one...
My thoughts are greedy and malicious.
My back hurts. Everywhere I look,
I see only sky-blue patches.

The church bell was droning. It stopped.
I am alone with myself.
Silk of scarlet creaks and bends
Beneath the clumsy needle.

A seal lies over all phenomena.
It is as though they are fused, one to another.
Having taken one in, I try to divine
The other behind it — that which is hidden.

And this silk seems Fire to me.
And now no longer Fire, but Blood.
And blood is but a sign of that which we
Call, in our poor language, Love.

Love is but a sound… At this late hour,
What comes next I can’t reveal.
No, not fire, nor blood, but only satin
Creaks beneath the timid needle.

Translated by James McGavran