Ksenia of St. Petersburg

Another poem by Elena Shvarts, this time on the Blessed Ksenia (Xenia) of St. Petersburg, whose husband died suddenly in the middle of a drinking party, and who insisted on wearing his clothes and being called by his name for a while after his death. For hagiographical links see this old post.

Ksenia sacrificed Ksenia:

“My beloved one died. I’ll become him myself.”

She went out of her mind

and, like onto a round ice-floe,

jumped into another:

into another one’s memory,

into another one’s dreams,

into a silken vest,

into red pants.

Running, in a basso

she shouts into damp dark:

“Live! I’m disappearing!

“Live!” she cries to him.

Then runs out of Ksenia,

“Sick her! Quick!”

Now she’s already him —

alive again, Andrey.

But life is shifting, stinging,

Both have no living.

She’s got to quit,

The trouble is — where to?

While you were rambling there,

Subterrene water

Kept knocking on your house.

It washed out mind and sleep —

Into that void

To move’s without your power,

Within but Christ’s.

Ksenia sacrificed Ksenia:

“My beloved one died. I’ll become him myself.”

She went out of her mind

and, like onto a round ice floe,

jumped into another:

into another one’s memory,

into another one’s dreams,

into a silken vest,

into red pants.

Running, in a basso

she shouts into damp dark:

“Live! I’m disappearing!

“Live!” to him she cries,

then runs out of Ksenia,

“Sick her! Quick!”

Too late: already she’s —

alive again — Andrey.

But life is flowing, and stings a bit —

both have no living: she

will have to quit — but where to? Woe!

While you were rambling there,

subterrene water

kept knocking on your house.

It washed out mind and sleep —

into that void

to move’s without your power,

within but Christ’s.

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