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.