Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 19

9. SUPPLICATION

What poor, miserable people!

They are not evil, just impatient:

they eat bread—and hunger for more,

they drink—and the wine sobers them.

If asked,

I should say: O God,

make of me something new!

I love the greatness of miracle

and have no love for misfortune.

Make of me a stone, all faceted,

and then lose it, dropped from the ring finger

onto desert sands.

Let it lie quietly,

not inside, not outside,

but everywhere, as a mystery.

And no one would see it,

Only the light inside and the light outside.

And the light is like children at play,

like small children, and tamed beasts.