#*translated from russian

Max Richter//Maria, The Poet (1913) (memoryhouse, 2002) How many people fell in this abyss, I fathom from afar! There will be time, and I will vanish too From earth's exterior. All will be still, that sang and that did struggle, That glistened and rejoiced: The greenness of my eyes, the gold of my hair, And this my tender voice. Life will continue with its soft hot bread, With day's oblivion. All will continue — under outstretched heavens As if I'd never been! Like children changeable in every mien And angry not for long, Who loved the times when in the fireplace Into ash turned the log, Violin and cavalcade within the forest And in the village, bell... Upon this dear earth — I will be no longer That was alive and real! To all — who are the friends and strangers To never having known the measure, me? I turn to you with this my faith's demand And love's query. Both day and night, in word and letter both: For truth of yes and no, For that though I am but twenty I am So often in such sorrow, For unavoidably my slights and trespasses Will be forgiven me — For all of my impetuous tenderness And look too proud and free — For quickness of events as they come rushing, For truth, for play, say I — Please hear me! But do also please love me For this that I will die.

*"America, how disgusting."*