O, for a cell, a monk’s refuge

In the depths of a forest a lair!

The strings have grown hoarse,   consumptive

On the battered decayed violin…

Here no one is young or maturing,

All grow older, together with me.

Not the years age us here

But the wind and the blizzards and clouds.

And the colourless word “misfortune,”

The word “anguish,” murky and dull.

Here the spring and frosts do the aging,

And the rules of a life that is death,

The blunt threats that surround us,

The orders to “March!” or to “Halt!”

The strings have grow hoarse, comsumptive

On the battered, decayed violin.

Here those who seem young in body

In soul wither weakly away.

Reprinted with permission of the St. Petersburg Review.

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