A house watches over the tormented soul
and a lonely grave over which anna's dream
and the cossack's gallop pass ...
Mound open to all winds
that has no name,no crown .
Here lies the old Russia
with young ever-burning branches,
silent earth and patience of time.
Man planted the tree under he rests .
sap creature ,secular trunk ,
long summer wood ,winter burns ...
Nostalgia for bare spaciousness ,
one day war will end
in the new -found peace ,
the shadows will shed their fatigue
giving grace for salt and bread .
Here no marble domes
no princely vaults
Clay in communion with the solitary genius.
Leon Tolstoi .
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Author:
lorenz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 16th, 2024 10:40
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 22
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Ellen Marsell
Offline)
Comments4
Thank you soren.
Thought I recognized the form and style. Too bright for Dostoevsky, too heavy for Turgenev.
Longing for the past, hope for the future, humility and wisdom in simplicity. One can feel the soul and motifs of old Russia. Bravo!
thank you dear Ellen !
Thank you dear blog for the trending !
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