Вспомнилось. Храм мой — тело твое белое… Вольно...

I remembered.

My temple is your white body ...

Freely interpreting the line of Scripture, -

Lord, what am I doing to myself

In the sheer temptation of misunderstanding ...

I read your palms like the Bible

Peering into every dash intently,

Coming from Israel, going through Libya

I am returning to Russia eagerly, mentally ...

I will touch my knees with my dusty forehead:

So, crouching on the threshold of the church,

Wounded warrior, wandering from captivity,

Hurries to the high and unconditional Word;

Filled with humility

Torn flowers from under the snow tablecloth,

Or autumn forest burning

Fire lava flows to the porch.

Your shoulders ... Is it not on them

This whole vault, decorated with frescoes? -

Not the Mother of God, not the Autocrat,

Not a steppe Baba with sharp features ...

I do not find a comparison for you.

Touching sweetly like a shrine ...

Thanksgiving in every prayer

Ancient sublime Latin!

Let me in, forgetting evasiveness

New laws. Look at the scars.

The time of any impotence is over.

You need to keep easy and straight.

My temple — accept me, sir, gray ...

Not with a plus, a minus - with an equal sign.

Lip up your lips touch with faith

And to commune with the Holy Mysteries.

(c) A. Belyanin