Читать книгу In Praise of Poetry - Ольга Седакова - Страница 49

9

(A Prayer)

Bring warmth, O Lord, to your Beloved flock—

the orphans, the infirm, the dispossessed.

For the one who can do nothing,

do all that he is bidden to do.

And for the dead, O Lord, the dead—

let their sins catch fire like straw,

let the sins burn and leave no trace

in the grave or the lofty heavens.

You are the Lord of all miracles and promises.

Let all that is not miracle burn away.

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