“To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June”
That’s why I sent(part of) an etremely long poem.
Tatyana’s letter – the end. A better translation than the question marks, but imperfect:
But who are you:
the guardian angel of tradition,
or some vile agent of perdition
sent to seduce? Resolve my doubt.
Oh, this could all be false and vain,
a sham that trustful souls work out;
fate could be something else again..,
``So let it be! for you to keep
I trust my fate to your direction,
henceforth in front of you I weep,
I weep, and pray for your protection..,
Imagine it: quite on my own
I’ve no one here who comprehends me,
and now a swooning mind attends me,
dumb I must perish, and alone.
My heart awaits you: you can turn it
to life and hope with just a glance —
or else disturb my mournful trance
with censure — I’ve done all to earn it!
``I close. I dread to read this page…
for shame and fear my wits are sliding…
and yet your honour is my gage
and in it boldly I’m confiding’‘...
— Aleksandr 06/01/2011 #
“ Well, I have returned to the street, to the year of another life, to the wilderness of a world lost, to a time lost, and now regained. Day breaks with a smile, and the muscles of my body tighten with joy, and my heart sings, since I’m not yet one of the dead. It is morning and I’m yet alive. It is the eternal morning of life, and again I am walking. In this city which I love, my life is yet a truth, and the light of the sun builds a shadow out of my substance.”