Sunday 355

Fedor Tyutchev

Filed under: Poem — zundel @ pm

No sickness of the flesh is ours today
 Whose time is spent in grieving and despairing;
Who pray all night that night will pass away—
 Who greet the dawn rebelliously, uncaring.

Withered and parched by unbelief, the soul
 Impossible, unbearable things is bearing.
We are lost men, and ruin is our goal,
 Athirst for faith, to beg for faith not daring.

(translated by R Christie)


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