The Word

In the days when the God eternal
Was declining face to the new world,
By the Word they stopped the sun’s inferno,
And destroyed the towns by the Word.

And an eagle was falling at the ground,
Stars were backing to the moon in fright,
If, as made from orange flames a cloud,
Word was sailing in the heaven’s height.

Figures were involved in low action,
As the tamed, domesticated herd,
Just because all set of comprehension
From the clever figure could be learned.

The white-bearded patriarch, whish found
Good and evil by his own hands,
Deciding not to use the sacred sound,
Drew a figure by a cane in sands.

Did we not forget in troubles own:
Only Word is blessing in the world?
In the Gospel, sent to us by John,
Is the saying, that the Word is God.

We designed for it the limits, gladly –
The scant limits of the life and thoughts,
And like bees in empty hives smell badly –
Badly smell the dead forever words.

by Nikolay Stepanovich Gumilev

Other poems of NIKOLAY STEPANOVICH GUMILEV (24)

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