just an interesting verse.
Here is an approximate translation.
On his deathbed
and on the bed of love
The cover is made of the same cloth.
here is the original text in Russian.
На смертном одре
и на ложе любовном
Покров из того же лежит полотна.
I don't know what context this comes from but damn that's so poetic. love and death. side by side. at the verge of perish. love prevails still.
3 notes
·
View notes
Mikhail Lermontov, a russian poet, wrote about Palestine in 1837:
The Palm Branch Of Palestine
Palm branch of Palestine, oh tell me,
In that far distant home-land fair,
Wast rooted in the mountain gravel
Or sprung from some vale garden rare?
Once o’er the Jordan’s silver billows
Fond kissed with thee the Eastern sun?
Have the grim gales ‘neath starry heavens
Swept over thee from Lebanon?
And was a trembling prayer soft whispered,
A father’s song sung over thee–
When from the parent stem dis-severed
By some poor aborigine?
And is the palm tree ever standing,
Amid the fierce glare beating down,
The pilgrim in the desert luring
To shelter ‘neath her shadow crown?
Perhaps the leaves ancestral shiver
In unappeased parting pain,
The branch conceals a homesick longing
For desert wilderness again?
Was it a pilgrim who first brought thee
To the cold North, with pious hand?
Who mused upon his home in sadness,
And dost thou bear his tear’s hot brand?
Was it Jehovah’s favored warrior,
His gleaming head transfigured bright,
For God and man true-sworn, devoted
Unto the victory of light?
Before the wonder-working image
Thou stand’st as heaven’s defence divine,
O branch from out that holy country,
The sanctuary’s shield and sign!
It darkens, golden lamp light splendors
Enveil the cross, the sacred shrine–
The peace of God is wafted o’er us
From thee, oh branch of Palestine!
a text in Russian (Русский) by Mikhail Yur'yevich Lermontov (1814 - 1841), "Ветка палестины", first published 1837
24 notes
·
View notes
Viktor Krivulin
Translated from Russian🇷🇺
While we Invented Paradise
«While we constructed the West
in the forty Soviet languages,
just like some sort of paradise in our ashen hands,
or like Canaan, unoccupied and promised
to ourselves — we saw the punishment of Egypt
but lived much safer than Oblomov:
we would come down, the way the Holy Spirit did,
to a sofa, holding an émigré journal
and facing a portrait of Nabokov in the purple frame…
Meanwhile, the Lord called on our beggarly abodes
And summoned us to our real homelands,
to Europe, or to India, sometimes to Palestine,
the hub of the Universe
where we are always missing…»
Www.Etoile.App
By Laurent Guidali
0 notes