Sergey Streltsov.

The Confessions of a Christian. Book 2.


#1 Ode to Saint Matron of Moscow

Theres tomb. There memory will save

All virtues and conscience.

And the tale of unhurried days

Poet will proclaim to simple hearts.

Shes gone. And she is back,

And Heaven is back with her

To spread best of the best

And to make us to love truth.



Is world the mutable or constant,

And limited or theres no limits

Is it for people or for comets?

The question however is strange.

Only God alone can resolve it,

Or even resolved in the days of creation.

And faith surviving all doubts

Will overpower them and outweigh.


#3 To Holy Memory of Nun Antonia from Nunnery of Tolgsk.

Antonia? Yes, and the great one.

To herself attentively rigorous.

To everyone lucid and simple,

And never saying in vain.

To fight the devil is a task

For executioner or for tears?

Life is gone. She is no more.

Peace and light are in her tomb.


#4 To Friend at the Table.

Dont remind me Apicius[1].

Let God save you from it.

Now I am happy only for that

That my table does not suit for orgies.

I dont grudge the wines and dishes,

I am always willing to share them.

But do know, my friend, that not the vessels

Are the best decorations for the feasts.

There is better to be appropriate word,

Memoirs about those

Who in my inclement age

Were loved by joy and success,

Whose dust is not far from here,

Whose memory is every new celebration,

About whom my tears dropped

To trembling porphyry of wine,

Which is about to boil up

Like speech of young ones,

Like blood that in heart of old man

Who is driving out the death knowing it,

But not giving to it up.

And from bottle brought

To us by vain commerce

We drink nectar and bloody and foamy

According to dates and words.


#5 On Tomb of Lieutenant.

He was military chap and was reading

All that his leisure time permitted.

And to this book he paid

One jiffy. And what remained?

To remember him happily.

We knew him, we were blessed.

Someone will be woken

By his memory in midnight,

And tear sweet and soft

Will fall to the abyss of universe.



I see far away hills. There is fog on them.

Purple dawn with its wing

Already covered silent meadows,

And they sleep in their cool dream.

Nun goes for water with bucket

Holding little girl by the hand,

And it seems to them

The Lord is coming! The Lord is coming!

I dont hear their steps. And soon

They approach holy spring.

Their eyes are joyful and humble

And pacify my soul.



As soon as sunny beam touches the mountain stream

And clears the roaring of water

Which is all-days indisputable sovereign

Of thoughtful plains

Sunshine comes to the dales,

And to the raised stone of rocks,

And the people of nearest villages

Convene to daily prayer.

Bells are barely heard,

And trembling flocks of birds

Taking on the wing are blessing roofs,

And then are kissing the ground.

And for whom? For God or men,

Or for their hunter,

Or for vale that feeds them?

In short fall unmoved

Their swarm of shadows is everywhere,

Children are scaring them.

And I think that I will be

The same shadow when I will die.



So was often. And why

To replace sun and moon?

But thats the will of God.

And for what it is only God knows.

He is Lord of them. And rare freedoms

In his creation occurring by miracle

Bring to Him their different fruits

When serving to their own law.



Im thirsty for new impressions,

And they have tightness in my chest

In queue of wonderful insights.

But the past attracts me

More strongly than passions of this moment.

And among the unintelligible wishes of now

My past is singing me old songs.



Our sorrows are alien to you?

But what is your sorrow then?

You are saddly that Providence

Does not send you prophetic dreams?

Its a sin to be discontented with Heaven.

You must admit that Heaven is wise.

And ignorance is happiness for us,

Because its bliss of new-borne infants.


#11 About Death.

Wind fell silent. And on the leaves of dawn

Dew still sways.

And voices of midnight birds

Still are heard to mortal ear.

And behold horizon is expanded

And enlivened by tender blush.

And being overwhelmed by silence

I woke form my thoughts

About fear and sorrow,

About subject of my long prayers

To Lord of everyone by which

He bought my love, sorrow and soul.



Among a much of tempests in my soul

I found the one omen

About Thee- Eternity! But word

Touches it in vain.

And my mind captivated by thin freeze

And penetrating to its substance

Does not feel it

Darkened by its bliss.

And what is given to mortal

In his weakness and pride

Which is near to him, and what from now

Is his salvation.

O, Inspiration! only Thee

Can explain Thy enigma.

And I am used to love Thee

Without hope and doubt.



When wine was filling this cup,

In its purple and foamy stream

One moment I see

Something that reminded me

Our love. And after that in cold night

After perusal of newspapers and magazines,

Of works of Holy Fathers, and of sinful annals,

And of boredom of latter-day sophistics,

Sitting before the fire I remembered

Rapture and horror of this vision.

And cold column of the bloody fall

Stood up in my memory piercing me.

Sin isnt sweet, but not to stop,

Not to resist its attraction

I did not want. So why to grumble?

Its time, my soul, to pray to God.



Im cold; with me are Book of Psalms and Saint Icon.

Tea is cooling down on kitchen, and words are dying in my soul.

But for them Divine Mercy by unknown way

Will find and life and destination. Like woman

Died leaving Sodom when saw wrath of God

So stately verse when it will leave my mind

To be cold pillar after rising weak eyes

On the hell punished by sulfur and fire.

But Thee o, my thought but Thee, o my glorious Lot!

Unspoken aloud yet Thou will find to Thyself

Eloquent eyes, and grateful ears.

Thy voice that is easy like the down

It will go, like shadow hovering form forehead

And there where fate wont bring my verse.



Our days fly and disappear.

Who will be saved- who will perish?

Heart will be deceived by caress,

Soul will be ruined by weakness.

There is no answer in silence

O, madman! Its enough.

You drank your youth:

So why you did not find love?

So whats the pity remainder?

In whose knees poking your nose

You will have long-wished peace

Full with joy and tears.

Your lyre is not to sing forever.

And your song will be thrown to fire.

You have no consolation,

But come to me.

Youre tired, and Im tired.

So why your voice is inaudible?

So why dont you sing?



Wave flies. Its raid

Is about to cover the shore

When its to fall on sand thats white like snow,

And like stone that became virgin of tenderness.

So The Time is going among us

Imprinting soul and features,

Hour-by-hour demolishing to the dust

My mind and girl of beauty.

So you, o Love! are casting suddenly

Your sight and mutinous and happy,

You sweep codex of our rules

Which is often is such unfairness.

So Death ever starving guard

Of order created by the sin

When falling on our fragile frame

Smites it with sickle.



When on unartful harp

I played with easy hand

And with flippant and sad song

Languished my breast My soul gets thirsty

Of higher thought. And eyes

Half-folded and ablaze

Were looking into my heart, where hopes

As sacrifices to fire of altar

Time was throwing. Smoke over dust

Rose in thin stream.

And with madness and horror

I have seen in it what will be with me.



More dear than sunsets and sunrises,

And than preaching of the ways

Of poetry, of love, of nations,

And more brave than any bravery

Seems to me the wish

That will die unfulfilled.

The image of creature of God

I see in it the one resembling myself.

That when got to know movement of world a bit,

And tasted own babyhood

To get silent like lyre

That had accomplished its fate.



What did I sing? No word about it!

Let my example not to be model for you.

Do love saint geniuses!

You have Chrysostom for this purpose.

There are four authors of The Gospels.

Do read them. Theres David for you.

They are splendid. Their days are bright.

And I am their pupil.


Embracing young crops

Tempest in the steppe is rising,

Inhaling moisture and go

Bringing curses of thunder

On heads of poor villagers.

Their prayers answer to it with the same.

And further hurricane goes,

Calming down among eternal battle

Of all elements and passions

That embodied in the man

To fulfill gloomy ages

With all their power.



When under foamy wave

Young tempest discloses

Abyss of depth of sea

At the shore, the shadow

Of the other wave is already coming,

Destroying itself in quick going,

And disappearing in the sands and rocks.

In this I see pictures of the days

That are gone and were troublesome.

That frightened us with frivolity

And are impossible to continue.



Be blessed the Moscow dialect,

And clearness and sonority of its words

In everyone of their scientific interpretations,

And vivid development

Supported by many a crowds,

Praying to its own God.

In a word the language

Brilliant and to astonish.



I philosophize but dignified weakness

That lives and was created for cathedra,

And cruel and feeble steadfastness

That feeds on mutinous crowd,

And talkative nonsense

Everywhere cheered and unhappy,

And praise to our fools

And to their advices and purses,

And businesses of womankind, and girly secrets,

And imbecility of loony-bins and poets,

And clairvoyance, and worlds conspiracy

Are not with me. Thats alright.

The God is with me now. And the pity

That this reason cannot be found simply.



Winter is gone, and in her wake

Spring is also gone. But theres no summer.

Clock calmly ticks. And cold rain

Clings to fertile plains,

And wind chases clouds over hills

Hither and thither, and always towards us.

And if the sun in midday gleam

Will appear, thats only to spread

Irate heat to aged puddles,

And to go leaving warmth to them.

And not my plume, not milk in the glass,

And not the morning that is drowned in fog

Are not fussy. And my blood is silent

As if theres no the death, and no sin.



Behold the moon declined to stack of straw

And watches like a woman on the road

To dark river, on which from moon

Is running silver streak.

Dogs are barking in humid hay.

And fisherman knee-deep in the water

Threw line by the nearest reeds.

Morning to come soon. And fresh breeze

Hunts shreds of fogs tatters.

Its late to sleep, and early to rise.

Id go to milk my cow.

All is splendid, but anyhow not the paradise.



My soul is already not here,

Its already beyond this world.

Just say me Go!

And I leave for ages.

People like me are not lonely.

So was here, so will be there.

This gift wasnt bought by sins

And I value it highly.

Life, Death, Separation, Heavens,

Or the Hell which is copy of the world.

Everything is You, God, miracles,

Love, poetry and lyre.



When you decided to see the world

And connected your computer to Internet,

Or half a year visiting Athens

To look at prophetic and aged ruins,

And London became native home for you,

And youre pining even there,

And Ocean opened its gates

To America and back,

And aromatic vessel of India

Is drunk by you and wished no more,

And Africa with its hunting

Seemed to you the childish entertainment.

Then theres The Lord! And to read psalms

Go, my friend, to the monastery.



There are coincidences in life

That are not hard to foresee

By eyes of soul. But how to put it?

Theres own blessing for everything.

And if I am still grieving

About something by my idle heart

Then merciful Providence

Gives me all Im looking for,

All that I dont yet know,

But what is held for me

By sagacious fate.

And all my languor

Is rendered again a nonentity.



Sun of north be bright.

Beauty is your destiny.

Destroy short jiffy of darkness

By the beam of you rise.

And in windy cold of winters,

And in summer full of hopes

Youre delight of mortal eyes,

And necessary friend of mortals.



In a shawl of dark clouds

Already crossed the skies

The mute whiff of sunset.

It went on its own.


Im half asleep and in half dreams

Reveries come to me.

They are clear and bright, and you

Appears in light and flowers.


My dream yes exciting, but only dream

Till I die

Will leave with me its calmness

And all its omens for my heart.



Fare you well! groves and forests.

My way speeds out of here.

And in this stormy night

I will leave you for good.


My new destiny is not privilege.

And again I will march through streets of city

As I am due

Among stones and tombs.



Tiredness of days and this boredom

I learned like a science,

But to submit to its rules

Is hard for me, and again

I hurry up by simple-minded step

To the world unknown and stuffy.

Where everything presses soul,

Where everything is lie and in vain,

Where everything is habit of submission

Of whole life to caprices of the moment.



Sovereign of the creation gave

To my mind marvelous light.

And the world that seemed to be well-known

I discovered in this light again.


Full with wonderful power

Stream of moving fates

And horrible and perfect

Dashed before me.



In the shadows of young trees

I bent to cold of calm stream.

And my life seems to be similar

To this picture.


As midday shadow of the trees

I was to occasional strangers,

And song of my lyre

Soothed the grief of their hearts.



Sparrow is jumping under the sun

Among indifferent dogs.

And the bird is happy with its fate,

And it is proud by its happiness.


Theres gleam of skies in its eyes,

And flippant trait in its movements.

And splash of short wings

Can tell everything about it.


But it is needed by no one.

And in its own calm conscience

Not astonished with nothing

Sparrow is jumping under the sun.



Stack of hay, ray of the sun in dusty barn,

Two black numbers on the cross at cemetery,

Fog among aging birches,

And swears of women, and eternal hay-making.

Thats the Russia! And Im among her roads and dust,

Either drunk or in friends car

Always in fuss, and this blessing

To feel, or even to understand

How? God forgives and we are not evil people.

And memory of past appearing as soup in dish

Still fuming and by its fresh anguish

Why torments me? And what is my hunger?

Is it a past which was sinful and cruel?

Away with it and dont bother!

Away with it those who think about it

Understood the life, but the aim of our living

Is yet not here. And why to guess

In alien features the alien blessing.



Im Russian- Yes! But let this word

Not to scare nobody.

Last friend of my soul

This word supports and wakes

Spirit of better truth O, Creator!

There are Hope, Faith and Courage,

And Glory ye God! at last

Love to the common peace.



Do love your native land, my friends.

She is our mother, and old one.

Her eyes are my sorrow,

Her eyes are halfpenny candle,

Which burns and still is not burnt down,

In its light is sunsets beam,

That speaks to me,

That torments my heart.



Preferring to anxieties of the day the sadness

About the days that are never to return,

I say to my doubts Let it be!

My soul already was able to inhale

That air of life with which sweetness

I lived till now and will live on,

That was like one mysterious stream

That quenches my thirst in the desert.



Fog will dissolve. And again before me

Will be discovered with Heavenly power

Your image gentle and live,

And because of it saint and dear.


But where to find it? Around

Unmoving shroud of fog.

Where are you? Do answer to me!

But everything is silence.



Thorny way is given to us from above

By Sovereign of every bliss.

And in this way is the source of our wounds,

And the source of perfection.

And all the murmurs against almighty

And beneficiary hand of Lord

Is to be humbled by blessing and calm

Of last sepulchral caress.



Now, young Bacchantes,

Where you will lead your raid?

Will be it to the broad plains of Russia?

Where only are the flowers or snow,

Where by your long awaited friendship

Already Sheppard-boy is languishing,

And with sweet and unstrange music

Is sounding his pipe.

Where everything without name and sound,

Without your fateful caress

Is alone unspoken torture

Of soul unknown and alone.



In silence of fragrant fields

Theres unvalued flower.

To its inconstant beauty

East extended thin ray.

It breathes of tenderness of impressions,

Over its vague head

Rises flying genius

The hundred-winged wind of plains.

On its petal by the dew

Will recline water of the nearest stream.

And virgin with caressing hand

Will hold it to her breast.



Cornfields faded before sunset.

Clouds, dragging over them

It theirs modest decoration,

Swim by will of breeze.

They have no power to explain themselves,

They are mute and native land,

Looking at their sad union,

Responds to them with eternal silence.



I love tomb-hills,

And nightly railway stations.

Only they are sorrowful,

Assiduous, and tired.

In them I see my life-

Errors, tears, hopes,

Imperfect friends,

And perfect wishes.


#47 On Two-Headed Eagle (The Royal Russian Emblem).

Theres on the wall on Babylon

Features of beautiful bird.

Its remembered

By mason, schoolboy and monk.

Its wing captivated on its own

Fellows of my dream,

And rushed on us the streams

Of passions that are avid for eternity.



Endure, evil man! Endure, child!

And you- o, woman- Endure!

Curve of the fate is thin,

One moment more, and calmly

Broken chains

Will fall. There is something

Lacks in the queue of events.

Either theres to be woe,

Or theres no woe at all, or woe is needed.



Already over foggy hills

Swim the sunrise. And like by shore

By the line of end of earth

Its aspirations are held.

It doesnt torment or disturb.

In peace the creation can

Be at rest some hour

While heat is not

Touching us.



Yet there one tired star

Is bright on dim sky.

But day will come soon,

And soon forever star will disappear.

So is friend thats glorified by eternity.

Now he is alive, then deprived of all vanities,

And then is silent.



Yet not knowing what waits me

In future so troublesome,

That is so hard, frightful, impossible

I made my choice in due turn.

And my choice was lucky.

Not knowing betrayal in friends,

I passed changes of times,

And Im happy with Heavens and myself.



I write not for glory

But more for my own joy.

To put words in beautiful verse

Is a limit of my hopes.

And if somebody likes my verse

Its triumphal minute

To my soul. I love my reader

Who is wise in beautiful wisdom.



Field is extended before me,

Midnight darkness is over it.

Moon, pretty set by itself

Through the clouds embraced the field

With frosty light. Unwillingly

I am obsessed like by the dream

By this sad reality. Wishing to you

The better lot, o my native land.


#54 On Prayer of Ephraim of Syria.

Simple like sound of Gospel,

Sweet like speech of David

Is a prayer thats consonant

To my soul at Lent.

It was put in poem by Great Pushkin,

Who is friend of our splendid pastimes,

Now they are beautiful,

Now they are overpoweringly sweet.

And with this prayer

We will go through inconstancy of this life

Past heathen snobbery

To find peaceful happiness.

Its perfect. Ghost of Liberty

In these words will invite us

And will explain many times

Our duty and mysteries of nature.


#55 To Nun Eulalie.

The beauty of old nuns

I value like Godly dew

That suits only those

Who with all their souls

Already in Paradise,

With whom the talk of God is pleasant,

Who cherish us tenderly

For Kingdom come.



When from the Heavens throws the thunder

Elijah in chariot,

I am always joyful in my heart

And tune my lyre

To pure harmony that was

Much beloved by David.

With which I wont be able to sing Evil

But only to praise Creator.



Love appears sometime

As a dangerous toy for us

That neglects its servant

But sanctifies voice of lyre.

So often we love by lyre

Having no caress.

So by will of passions we are crippled

Who are deprived of the little solace.

There can be and the other way round,

Engulfed in embrace

We forget the call of lyre

And on and on.



The teacher of happiness and victories

Was Mohamed for Arabs.

He also was the great temptation for Christians

To train us in apologetics.

We succeeded in our belief

And we became to alien errors

The one friendly advice.

But to accept us is a hard work

And we wait for those astray.



When days of raptures will pass

And reason will rise soberly,

And wont look indulgently

At the fetters of its vanity.

Then, o poet, heed to greatness

Of ordinary deeds, and of simple people,

Which in their virtue

Show true way to glory.

To Glory that is fulfilled among them

Overpowering vice,

And opening Heavenly doors

In every temptation.



What is my life? And if it possible

To find peace and happiness in it.

Or only new tempest

Will fall from Heavens with new power.

I hurry up and every day

I pass luckily enough,

My heart multiplies remembrances,

And the further the more Im devoted to them.


#61 The Short Notice on Subjects of Astrology and Divine Providence.

Stars from different tribes,

Stars from different unions

They are invitingly proud

And shine with uncommon genius.

But behold! If only

Theres blessing of Providence

We are forgetting stars.

And this is astonishing.



Such, alas! is the lot of poet

One thing to do day by day

And to sing of other things.

He pacified by fate all these.

Gift that is given to him from above

He is forgetting often

But seizing his lyre

He becomes prophetic.



Atheistic brotherhood

That chained the world

Is non-vanishing idol

Of profit and its riches.

What to do with it? How to destroy

Hope that is saint for worshiper of this idol.

That changing its names

Hurts us again and again.



Poetry is breath of Divinity.

Poetry is a soul of lyre and art

That brings to the world exquisite feelings

When joining old words in new order.

Lets open way for inspiration

Which law is unchangeable in ages.

It declares to hearts of people

To trust all hopes to revelation.


#65 To Bolshevik About Aim Of His Life.

Vicar of world vanities

And social catastrophes,

Oppressor of long-suffering crowds,

And author of all your calumnies.

O, Bolshevik, where are you driving at?

In heroes of vain epochs?

I see that you feel bad

And rather wont answer to me.



As the piece of stale bread

Polluted by the insects

The Soviet poetry

Is full of sad omens.

Inspiration hushfully

Proclaim in them to universe

That where decay breathes

We wont find happiness.



So do bless those who going

From darkness of past

To darkness that used to be ubiquitous

To threaten our reason.

Catching moment of life

With eyes avid for happiness

We dismayed by sentence

Brought to us by death.

Oblivion and torture for ones,

And paradise and glory to others

Death brings extending

Its hand on us.



What we will find in Platonic romances?

Theres no answer.

These are only false nets

Dragging us to thin lies

Of reason, feeling and passions

Tormenting morality

To smash us afterward

With all its unreality.



Enough we were rejoicing

With glorious poems of John Keats.

Its time to turn our eyes

To contemporaries. Lets in morning

Will open book of new poet

By habitual reckoning

To taste mature fruits

Of some other reason. And alike

Let will be our day.

And what we will discover in bookshops

For our happiness well take.

And in the evening like in the day

We will find in new bookstore

Something not rigorous to us

To delight it.

And when night to its stars

Will show their place in skies,

And all in nature will be changed

We will dash to bed

Of leisure and tenderness.



Unmercifully reproach myself

For my uselessness

I cannot. I am rather to live

For new and perfect songs.

They come as secret gift,

As fairness of Providence

Which answers to prayers

Of young and old,

Of drunk and sober,

And of useless

Who enjoy their life

Waiting the novelties from their fate.



Its anguish. What to do?

Where to hide? Where with bent head

Ill find new happiness

To forget in it everything diligently?

This happiness is not in girls or in wine,

Not in gold, or in fetters of marriage,

And not in sweet oblivion of the fear

That death will take me in the night.

That I wont meet her face to face,

That Ill give up to her in weak-will,

When I am asleep

And dont dispute with Providence.



I am so ironic. God forgive me!

And why is this lot of irony?

Taking her from beginning

As company fellow

I blundered

And now my bile is everywhere.

But Reason my true friend

Is saying Wait a minute!

And in lacks of love

Find though one virtue

And you will atone your life by it

Forgiving everything to your enemies.



There is no place for Sublime

And where it lives, it is avidly scorned

In its beginnings. So they dare

And they are no more and without trace.

Only Sublime is eternal in the world.

And to its ubiquitousness

As to our Providence

Our memory pays attention carelessly.

So with genius of simple things

Or great triumphs

Are alive and shreds of tradition

And novelty in its glory.



We are astonished sometimes

How great is Divine mercy to us.

And we think if its a dream

And so we find peace.

Then with Icon of Mother of God

Adorning corner of our room

We are recalling lesson from Scripture.

Now theres the wedding of future apostle, and wine,

And water. Here will be miracle.

Like with our life. And meantime

Our duty is only to pray.



Are you proud, poet, by your glory?

And you think you did much

And were not sinful

Of evil eloquence.

Are you judge for yourself?

And not afraid of Last Judgment?

I think you are simply drunk if so

Let not wine to kill you!

Introduce in your noisy life the ascetics

And use time on earth

Not to harm yourself,

Pray when you eat and drink.

And do remember those

Who went before you by the path of inspiration.

Do not betray yourself to vain grief

And you will be happy, my friend.



Expenses are everywhere, and money fly away

Like birds called by law of nature.

But what the money? Icon?

O, no! So let they say

Pray to gold! Wish

On the earth only wealth!

And do bless gold to rule

The world!

Its funny. And I say

That our happiness is not in the richness.

But only The God alone

Is more powerful than anyone and anything.



Bending their heads

Friends over coffin of their fellow

Are alien to mortal fear.

So daringly passing the life

Among battles and contentions,

Feasts, and languor

Their late friend

Disdained this fear like them.

But theres one among them

Whom God will embrace

And mortal fear will find

To his soul sublime toils.

Heat of desert and wild animal

Will accompany him till tomb.

And sour wine of passions

Wont approach his lips.



Saint Patron of Russian poetry,

Forerunner of sweet bards.

O, Chrysostom! To prayer book

And to Divine Service of pure sacrifice

You had put measure of measures

Good taste with good will

That became our high school

And poetic example.



Theres hour of rushing light

That like an arrow

Strikes everything with blush of sunrise

No knowing toil and pain.

It is all peace and constancy,

It is all triumph of entertainment

To dress universe in the decoration

That is chosen by Divinity.

But, no! And darkness will hide it.

But short moment! And moon

Will rip avid belly of darkness

In crown of stars.



Behold that is Heavenly grape-vine

That whirls like pearl-lace

All twisted and that is lightning

Which embrace old oak.

And behold! Instantly with Baltic ember

The old tree is flourishing fire came,

And this eternal element

Rise to Heavens in sparkles

Which heat is indomitable.

And turning everything to ashes

Sparkles live only one instant

Being borne and dead soon.



There flies brocade of blue stream

Further and further among velvet grass.

Modest pipe is singing above them,

And its song will die without glory.

So modesty is only decoration

Of greatness of earthly things

That doomed to live eternally

Glorified by poets.



Rising prophetic hands

And appealing in full voice to Heaven

Poet needs only miracles

And he wishes to meet The God.

Bloody thorny crown

Will top him in sorrow hour.

The word Poet in Greek means

Creator, Law-maker,

Beginner of battle and Lord Jesus Christ.


#84 Ode On Book of Pslams.

David is king of poets

And Law of Divine Service

Is his omen and glory

By which is well-known in Russia

The assiduous collection in translation

Of ancient and righteous fathers.

By this book sanctified our prayers

In parish and in palace of Czar.



I knew all I wished to know

Love, friends, grace of Heavens,

And God in breaking of Bread,

And passion in female caress.

And to those who want to be happy

And in this life and afterwards

I say Follow The Christ!

Love with unangry heart!



Thin covers lie

On every word

That flies to strike artfully hearts

Without the obstacles.

Is it enough to say about it

By unchangeable and eternal word

Which will remind to you the covers

Of Divine Mercy.



Take the lyre! Whats with it?

Only frame and strings and thats all.

And where are terrible thunders?

And prophecies of days to come?

Wheres that that we loved dearly,

Forgetting ourselves, and what we kept,

What we raised to Heavens,

And what we did not forget in the death?



At dawn the night will die

Not understanding power of the day

Which lives by perfect glory

Unovercomable by night.

But light is not forever.

And it runs to disappear,

And scudding the welkin

To submerge in darkness.



Trumpet calls! To bloody battle

Will go careless youth.

Ones of them will be crowned in Heavens,

Others will descend to hell with glory.

Theres no number to them.

Under the stars theyll fall in combat.

And we will pray about them

And fasting and taking holy orders.



God loves us as his image

That was created as was awaited.

And what was with us after it,

And became our common fate

All that is Blessing, and Providence,

And Divine Appeal to hearts

Where passions reigns. Dont be

Conceited fool to deny it.



O, Vice youre ruthless fire

That goes from heart to heart,

And where finds door

Enters and drags by net

Excess to there, and having sated

The mortal soul, Vice you blame it

Crushing precious stone of faith

To punish us eternally.



Our age is short, void and evil,

But wants to defeat Heavens.

By our unworthy words

The Words of Lord is disdained.

We think that we are diligent,

That we are kind, and complicated,

That our hopes are important,

That our passions are impossible.



Hurricane dashed through the field

Breaking trees, rumpling corn.

He wanted to rejoice

And was either drunk, or too drunk.

That same is with our years

That destroy obstacles on their way,

They try to overcome

All that they encounter.



I was asleep when was drugged

By my leisure.

And I was not inviting guests,

And I wanted the peace only.

But my hermitage

I left by call from friend.

And again I serve him,

And he is judge of my songs.



Hopes where are you? Where you disappeared

From daylight by your crowd.

You were charming and beautiful

And did not come true.

World is void without you. Alone

I go away by sorrowful path,

And voice of weeping wind

Is only dictator of my harmonies.



To midnight of Russia stranger went

Submitted to Supreme fates.

He went through the cities

Everywhere alone and exiled.

Nobody shared wine with him.

Only voice of Heavens blessed him.

And his sight was austerity and light

And its light was not engulfed by darkness.


#97 The Poet.

He is true to book of La Fontaine,

Theres Eliot in his pocket.

He is real idiot

Of poetic disposition.

He is not rich, his friends

Bring him the peace and the wines,

And though he is not prince charming

He has his wife.



Singer was proud. He did not prayed

The Heavens for indulgence from above.

But instantly he found in his song

Omen of Supreme powers.

Hes astonished. Is it The Lord

Who blessed him?

And how can vain flesh

To have insight in Divine Mysteries?


#99 To Saint Feodosiy of Caucasus, who lived 148 years.

Theres old priest in the tomb.

Long age he roamed around the world,

And was humble man,

And now wears crown of angel

Gifted to him by Lord

To stumble alien folks.

His soul is pure like snow

Like first snow in days of creation.



I pray you O, Saint Providence!

Dont leave me in my grief.

I come to you in need

And I was in hope of revelation.

Appear to me in your truth,

And come to me in your moment,

And afterward with eternal resurrection

Bless my heart.



The fall is sweet. And whats in it?

Wine of vice? Tenderness of world?

Or mysterious power

That leads everything in its way?

All together, and that

About what we dont speak aloud.

That that calls for us from abysses

Of Divine Supremacy.



When, my friends, we will die

We will see everything in new light.

We are children of Providence

So do say good word about It.

Lord was merciful, and humbling us

He fed us, and poured for us His wine.

And man was seeking woman,

And wise was seeking wisdom.


#103 To Alexandra.

Spring will come. And snows will thaw.

There will be celebration of the Easter.

And old woman will bake Easter cake

To have something sweet for tea.

I will greet her when we will meet in Church.

Why? We know each other many years.

And our poor homes

Will be filled by guests or sorrows.



Petrarch is uneasy when not habitual,

His Florentine dialect

So difficult in this age

That its even not cause for fight.

Hither and thither he moved

Stressed syllable triumphantly.

That was his fate

He was genius.


#105 The Escape to Egypt.

On the road to Egypt bandits raided

Queen of Heavens with Her Son.

Caravan was ruthlessly robbed,

Then their leader looked at baby Jesus.

Its God! He exclaimed and his hands

He extended weeping to Lord

Forgive me, O Savior!

And save my sinful soul.

They were crucified together,

And together came to Heavens.

So robber in repentant prayer

Found eternal mystery.


#106 Christmas.

Behold there God was borne by Virgin.

There were cave, light of fireplace, Joseph.

And if now well ask Heavens

We will understand what will be our fate.

Baby in manger on the hay,

The donkey is caressing Him.

And shepherds of nearest villages

Sing Hosanna now in God!

Magi go in wake of Star

To learn new mysteries,

And to live and to sing

The God in life and death.

Hour will come. Herod

Will know that New King came.

And blood of babies of Bethlehem

To be poured ruthlessly.

But Lord will receive His martyrs

In His embrace.

And in His all-good hand

Well be brothers and sisters.

When Last Judgment will be finished,

And Angels will fulfill orders,

We will celebrate perfection

And comfort of our victory.


#107 The Saint Epiphany.

John, The Prophet of Lord,

Was staying in water, accepting everybody,

And alleviating common burden

He was praying and weeping.

And behold Lord appeared.

Baptize me! He orders

Healing wound of heart

Of John by this words.

Let me be baptized by you!

John asked him humbly.

There is duty for battle and for celebration.

Hurry up and you will be saved.

Lord said to John in response,

And He entered water, from which

Light ascended to Heaven

By sheer miracle.

Jesus baptized! And Holy Ghost

Came as a Dove.

And voice Theres blessing

In Son of God! was heard by everyone.



Enough to think that we will pass

Without trace on earth,

That our age will disappear in evil

And need, that our feasts are

Purposed only to forget

Death which is near

And that our grieves are incurable

By intention to love.



In my peaceful room

There are the tea, blackberry cake,

Saint Icons, books,

Lamp on the table,

Dusty notebook, prayers,

And my poetry,

Which is ordinary and bad,

And forgotten by reader.


#110 Ode on Book of Psalms.

The verse is composed by many a words.

Its about everything and everyone.

Its happy in its living,

Its fireplace and roof for itself,

It loves God and people,

Its grateful to them for all.

And its place in eternity

It found among angels blessing.



Theres God of love, theres no God of disdain.

Theres God of care, of righteous wording,

Theres God of children, fathers, and mothers,

Of old men and women, and of families.

But theres no God of evil hatred

That breathes with wicked bile

In face of innocents. No! Our God

Is completely of other kind.

Theres Church of unity, and not of dissension.

Who doesnt agree will see soon

That theres no prophet without saint prayer

As theres no wine without water.


#112 On Poetry.

The poetry of earth is never dead

On the grasshopper and cricket: sonnet.

December 30, 1816

John Keats.

The poetry of earth will never die

Its soul of lyre and art

That bestows on us supreme feelings

Connecting words in new order.

God breathes in it. Providence breathes in it.

Nothing wont overshadow it.

And every man all his life is a poet.

And every inhale is saint inspiration.


#113 To Poet.

Do understand genius is equanimity.

He doesnt condescend to crowd

To build idols of himself.

Air of conceitedness is stuffy for him.

He is pure, free and lofty.

Tremblingly he listens to The Heavens,

Acquiring righteous knowledge

For better odes, for better words.



To tear off fetters of past day

To give myself to new days

To be cheated again

When forgetting word of truth.

No! No! I live by memory.

Bless me, Creator!

And past day is my friend

And we are always in unity.



Daisy crown of poet

Will adorn my head,

When I will sing about God

In ruthless years.

And heat, and cold, and tempest

All that will whirl away

In one dash

To Eternity.



When Ill become white bones

And my flesh will be reduced to dust

I will wait guest to my tomb

About whom now I know nothing.

He will come with prayer book

And will read psalms over me.

And we will be the one

In severe light of Supreme.



I remember you, my native plains,

Where I was happy and peaceful.

I remember you, now youre far away,

And its no easy to come back to you.

I remember water of your rivers

And stack of hay where I slept,

Fog, nightly lightning,

Dawn spread in silence.

I remember you, my native plains,

Where I was happy and peaceful.



Poet with Royal Cup

Hurry to altar of Scripture

For with sacrifice of love

To receive Divine answer

On question on freedom.

What is it? Why its so rare?

And in poetic union

God comes to His people.



My home is altar of One Above.

Where sacrifice of vanity

I offer many years

Its the act and the word.

And if I die on Heavens

I will recall

My vain life

Counting it in miracles.



Heu! Fugaces, Postume, Postume,

Labuntur anni


Alas! My Postumus, our years

Run speedier now.

And soon Death will open the door.

Obedient child of nature

It will enter, and will rise the sword

To harvest my mad age.

And I will come to Judgment

To be received by God.



Rest in the LORD, and wait patiently for him: fret not thyself because of him who prospereth in his way, because of the man who bringeth wicked devices to pass.



Not that among us is astray

Who eats Zoloft or Prozac.

But that who is not in peace with God,

Who settled in his home,

In his soul, in his mind

The spirit of age completely.

He is uneasy now

Thinking evil, and seeing evil.



Christ is blessed! Antichrist is damned!

I will say it again and again.

And my word will be the same.

And other man can understand me

As he wish. But to be silent

About that is impossible!

Christ is my God! Antichrist is no god at all!

And those who are in doubt will see afterwards.



This book was finished on 22nd of May, 2008.

On Saint Nicholas Day.

After Divine Service.


To Be Continued.

In Christ We Win!
Christ Resurrected and We Will Resurrect!

Sergey Streltsov.


[1] Marcus Gavius Apicius was glutton in reign of August and Tiberius, he suicided after spending on food about 100 million sestertii, he is known mostly thanks to Seneca.
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