Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 42

2

Now what have I done, that

my candle cannot flame brightly,

that it flickers like eyes in pain,

like sleepless, dull eyes?—

I will remember—much; I shall forget—even more.

But I do not want to forget, nor to remember.

Ah, I have looked long on people in this world

and I know strange things:

I know that the soul is but a babe,

a babe until its last hour of life,

it believes everything—everything!

and it sleeps in a den of thieves.