Whose the flying hands, about me shedding <br />Fire, and leading me on passionate ways? <br />No sonorous stones my feet are treading, <br />But where vatic waters fill the days. <br />Piercing through the spirit, sharp pilasters <br />Rise, and candle sting the dark like bees. <br />Oh, the hearts that bloom like crimson asters, <br />Petalled with gold-bladed ecstasies. <br />Now the evening on the temple flinging <br />Patterned, carven crimson, shines and mourns. <br />Oh, the pale brow to the altar clinging, <br />Stung anew with stinging scarlet thorns! <br />The whole soul, high vaults and portals glowing, <br />Fear like incense swathes with dim blue bands: <br />Ah, I know you, sacred corals, growing <br />On the pierced palms of these outstretched hands.<br /><br />Maximilian Alexandrovich Voloshin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/stigmata-2/
