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16 Sept. 1930

638. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Ангел

As slaves are driven from behind with w hip and shouts that don't abate, so I am goaded by my blind, my cruel and relentless fate. In such a servitude and pain what boundless strengths one must possess in order not to go insane or die from hunger and distress! But as the day grows ever dimmer it s pierced — so often! — from the skies by slender wings that lightly shimmer and luminous transparent eyes. I die so slowly, crawling, groping… Yet as I reach the gate of heaven I know that he will pull it open and with his wing will help me in.

[1930]

639. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Два восьмистишия

Don't go away, for I am lost, stay here, for I am cold; upon my chest my hands are crossed that I may not unfold. I cannot lift my eyes to see, it's cold, and dark as well. This cannot be, this cannot be the bottom of the well…

[1930]

640. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). «Никогда я так жалок не был…»

Never felt I more to be pitied, ridiculous, clumsy, weak; I dreamed I was turning blind, the sky was a blackened streak. Oh, weight of unseeing sadness, remembrance of earthly day! Invisible voices, crying, ran past me upon their way. Oh, death without putrefaction, insatiable worm of night. I summoned God to redeem me, but it was you who replied. The lower your voice, the softer, the more the answer grew clear: «My dear, I hear you, I hear you, there is no salvation, dear!»

[1930]

641. Владимир Смоленский (1901–1961). Сердце

It all will be as I have always wished: over my feet the cover will be white and white will be the ribbon of the wreath around my forehead, grown cold and dark. Keeping my earthly, my familiar look, three long, three not-to-be-forgotten days alone upon the table I will lie. Pompous and solemn, the memorial mass will be performed above me by the priest and silently around me there will stand my family, my enemies, my friends, and those with whom I lived and whom I'd met; and the transparent pallor of her face will lend an added beauty to my wife. It all will be as I have always wished. And only you will never have a chance, in your great longing and your last despair, to touch my hand, my all but living hand, to touch already my unseeing eyes. And even into the wide open church you will not dare to enter with the rest. But, waiting for me somewhere on the way, pressing your hand over your pain-stilled mouth, you will observe my coffin floating past silently, in the mist, without a trace… And at that moment the dead heart in me will suddenly, in mortal pity, shake, and you will clearly hear the distant beat — the beat, so long familiar, of my heart. But people will not hear a sound.