My Monastery, Where

 by Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok

My Monastery, Where

My monastery, where I'm badly pining,

Is granite, melted by the burning mind.

I'm strangled and blinded under this heat, lying,

And leave it, trying a new cell to find…

There'll be still heat, but one that's always warming.

The bloody ball will melt my brain to ash,

I'll lose my mind in ways, the more calming,

Than in this one, oppressing blood and flesh.

Where's the new cell? Where is my cloister, novel?

Not on the skies, the grave's darkness behind,

But on the Earth it's healthy one and low, 

Where I'll find all, when having lost my mind!... 

I Wait For You... 

I wait for you. The years in silence pass 

And as the image, one, I wait for you again. 

The distance is in flame -- and clear one as glass, 

I, silent, wait -- with sadness, love and pain. 

The distance is in flame, and you are coming fast, 

But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet, 

And will initiate the challenging mistrust 

By changing features, used, at long awaited end. 

Oh, how I will fell -- so low and so pine, 

Unable to overcome my dreams' continued set! 

The distance is such bright! And azure is so fine! 

But I'm afraid that you will change your image yet. 

To The Muse

In your hidden memories 

There are fatal tidings of doom... 

A curse on sacred traditions, 

A desecration of happiness; 

And a power so alluring 

That I am ready to repeat the rumour 

That you have brought angels down from heaven, 

Enticing them with your beauty... 

And when you mock at faith,

That pale, greyish-purple halo

Which I once saw before

Suddenly begins to shine above you. 

Are you evil or good? You are altogether from another world

They say strange things about you

For some you are the Muse and a miracle.

For me you are torment and hell. 

I do not know why in the hour of dawn,

When no strength was left to me,

I did not perish, but caught sight of your face

And begged you to comfort me. 

I wanted us to be enemies;

Why then did you make me a present

Of a flowery meadow and of the starry firmament --

The whole curse of your beauty? 

Your fearful caresses were more treacherous

Than the northern night,

More intoxicating than the golden champagne of Aï,

Briefer than a gypsy woman's love... 

And there was a fatal pleasure

In trampling on cherished and holy things;

And this passion, bitter as wormwood,

Was a frenzied delight for the heart!