I <br /> <br />Not believing in the Resurrection, <br />we strolled in the cemetery. <br />-- You know, the earth everywhere <br />reminds me of those hills <br />. . . . . . . . . <br />. . . . . . . . . <br />where Russia breaks off <br />above the black, deaf sea. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />The broad meadow runs away <br />from the monastery's slopes. <br />I really didn't want to go so far <br />south of Vladimir's expanse, <br />but to stay in this wooded, dark, <br />and holy foolish place with such a dizzy nun <br />means disaster is in store. <br /> <br />III <br /> <br />I kiss the sunburned elbow <br />and a waxen patch of forehead. <br />I know it is still white <br />under the tawny golden locks. <br />I kiss the wrist where a bracelet <br />has left a white band. <br />The flaming summer of the Taurides <br />causes such marvels. <br /> <br />IV <br /> <br />How quickly you tanned, <br />came up and kissed the poor Savior, <br />couldn't tear yourself away -- <br />but in Moscow, you were proud. <br />Only the name is left for us -- <br />a marvelous, drawn-out sound. <br />Take this sand being poured <br />with my hands.<br /><br />Osip Emilevich Mandelstam<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-believing-in-the-resurrection/
