Thursday, February 7, 2013

As I read this poem...

...I'm thinking of my mother and father.

I found this poem on an Italian website that is apparently a kind of Russian/Italian thing. The poem was written by an exiled Russian princess -- Elena Wolkonsky -- who lived in Rome.


Poor body, covered with wounds,
If scalpel or time
It does not matter ...
Poor soul, in which we
So much suffering,
Not knowing why.
Abyss of pain
And Spirit immense
That penetrates us
And we won and we are born
And yet we are born and reborn
Sublimating any time
In a sigh.
With a smile or a frown on his face
We dream, unaware, another life ...

Elena Wolkonsky, 2003, dedicated to Natasha Stepanova

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