The Waiting

I’m, in my fifties, wait for something else:
Not for Great God, nor sacred flight from heaven,
Nor the big joy, nor black unhappiness.
Nor marvel, but for something that would happen.

The even host and guest by just a chance
Here on that Earth between the dead and deathless,
Where the nature’s patience had been cast
Into granite full of the proud steadiness, --

I wait for something that has not its name,
Together with white clouds and deeps breathless.
Eternal darkness and eternal flame – 
Are nulls, compared with what I seek for centuries.

I wait for something, being poor or reach,
Through years of woes and of bright creation;
I wait for something in the World, in which  
Matter is just a form of this wait-action.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, Apriil, 2001