A darksome night of winter,
Dead silence without
end!
Where are you, my
beloved,
My brave and faithful
friend?
Your image, pure and
lovely,
In spite of bolt and
bar,
Before me comes; your
fond, clear glance
Shines on me like a
star.
The long, long years of
parting,
With grief and longing
rife,
The hand weighed down
by bondage,
Pains of a shattered
life—
Not all could dim that
image,
Your sweet head, golden
bright;
Still o'er my thoughts
it reigneth,
Unchanged its magic
might.
In this cold grave, I,
living,
Am buried from the sun;
Monotonously,
mournfully,
The years pass, one by
one.
Sometimes in this dead
stillness
Is heard a groaning
deep;
The heart beats slowly,
wearily,
And thought is lost in
sleep.
But through the gloom
your image
Shines like a magic
lamp;
Like a bright beam, it
drives away
The dark cell's cold
and damp.
For you is all
forgotten;
I far away have flown
In dreams—and then my
heart, dear love,
Is filled with you
alone.
What fate has fallen to
you
Of sorrow or delight?
Your path across life's
meadow,
Has it been smooth and
bright?
P. Polivanov
translated by Alice
Stone Blackwell
(Picture: Solitary Confinement, David Alfaro Siqueiros-1961)
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