You could not make peace with your dismay, and

Conquered laughter that wounds pitying.

Like a candle at a piano, burning

Lighter than all others in the heaven.

And thus stated Christ, father of love:

“Mom is mourning for you downstairs,

Her soul is sadder than empty temple,

World is woeful. Call her to yourself.”

Since that time, when yellow is the wood,

She alone through gold of leaves is looking

As if though something she is seeking

In the darkness of the heaven blue.

And when lean to soil autumn flowers

Like, without laughter, a childish look

From bright lips, like an echo, is tearing

A quiet moan: “Oh, my boy, it is you!”

Call, oh call, with greater might her call!

Of the earth, where all is trouble,

And of how lovely to be with God is,

Tell me everything, for kids know all!

Life is joy or madness, you have known,

You have gone, not bothering the doubts…

You have gone… Sergei, you’ve been a wise one!

World is woeful. God does not have woe!