Valery Yaklovich Bryusov

(December 13 [O.S. December 1] 1873 – October 9, 1924 / Moscow)

At Home


It's all so familiar and clear,
My eye's accustomed to every turn;
I'm not mistaken- I'm at home;
The wallpaper flowers, the chains of books...

I don't disturb yesterday's ashes -
The fire here has long gone cold.
Like a snake surveying its molted skin,
I gaze upon what I was.

Though many hymns remain unsung
And many blessings unbestowed,
I sense the glint of a different world,
A chance for new perfection!

I am called to unknown mountain peaks
By the chorus of spring,
And these letters from a woman
Lie in a cold, lifeless pile!

Dewdrops shine like eyes in the sun,
As if everything were splashed with silver...
My staff awaits me at the door!
I'm coming! I'm coming alone!

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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