Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 43

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A woman’s fate is a loom,

a loom seen on old gravestones,

it is a winter night of untold stories.

I grew up an orphan, grew old a widow,

then grew to feel my shame.

A golden thread was falling from the sky,

Falling down, almost to earth.

Why does this gnaw at the heart?

From out of the ocean’s depths

a wondrous fish swam forth,

it bore a ring of pearls

but could not swim to shore.

What storm howls in the breast?

Oh, to cry out—but no cries can come,

how pitiful, this beautiful earth!