Ah, if we could only foresee it, foresee it,
That all of our burning will matter, we’ll see it—
The burning of patience, of magic and faith,
The tragic hereafter, the joy in first breath.
No answer is given to bitter defiance,
Our arguments fail in a solemn compliance.
Here’s Lermontov, lieutenant. He’s awkward and plain,
The world is so gray, but his words will remain!
When holding a quill, he’s a sight to behold.
And here is Aleksandr, so restless and bold,
The cards are deceitful and slip from his hand,
Their silhouettes haunt him, by shadows expand...
Oh, patience and magic, and love to the end!
The hopes and confusion now slowly descend.
To different heights do their spirits now soar.
The wheel of existence still turns as before,
But sparks will remain, and for that we are glad.
And now I am noticing, though it sounds mad,
Some mystical hints in October’s dark chill:
Not just the awakening of power and skill,
But even rebirth of the passions once dead.
Through shaking and struggles all objects are bred.
Don\'t argue in vain about colors and line.
Let everyone reach for their purpose divine...
Oh, patience and magic, and love to the end.