The Prophets

There are the modern prophets here,
Though altars totally are felt,
Their eyes are very deep and clear –
In them, the flame of future set.

For them, the calls of fame are alien,
They’re pressed by mass and depth of words,
All they are frightened, pale and sullen
In tombs of stony abodes.

And sometimes in the fits of sadness,
A prophet, just repelled by us,
Rise up to skies his look of greatness –
The look of clear and beaming eyes.

He says that he’s in bonds of madness,
But that his soul’s a light for us,
That he has seen in depths of sadness
The shining face of Jesus Christ.

The dreams of Lord have many faces,
Kind is a hand of him, who gives,
Not just the one, like him, in grace is,
And as a knight of kindness lives.

He says that World is not such fierce,
That he’s a prince of Future Dawn.
But just the towers’ black spirits
Listen to him with mock and scorn.

by Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev

Other poems of NIKOLAI STEPANOVICH GUMILEV (48)

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