a Blok poem

Life slowly moved like a mature fortune teller 
Mysteriously whispering forgotten words. 
I sighed, regretting something , loss, or failure, 
My head was filled with dreams of other worlds. 
 
As I approached the fork I stopped to stare 
At the serrated forest by the road. 
By force of some volition , even there 
The heaven seemed to be a heavy load. 
 
And I remembered the untold and hidden reason 
For captured power of youth and captured hopes, 
While up ahead the fading day of season, 
Was gilding the serrated verdure tops… 
 
Spring, tell me, what do I regret? What failure? 
What are the dreams that come into my head? 
My life, like a mature fortune teller, 
Is whispering the words I did forget. 
 

March 16th, 1902