Yet life
is
seething.
Faces throng
Around me, young and old.
But no one's here to whom I'd raise my hat,
Not one whose eyes would give me refuge.
A swarm of thoughts sweeps through my mind:
My native land-yes, what
is
that?
Is it just a dream?
For here I'm merely a frowning pilgrim,
Issued God knows whence ...
So this
is
I!
I, citizen of this village,
Whose only claim to fame will be
That,
in
this place, a peasant woman bore
A rowdy Russian poet.
But the voice of thought enjoins the heart:
"Think twice! Why feel the hurt?
It is the new light burning
Of another generation
in
the huts.
You're past your prime already:
Other youths sing other songs.
They may be more interesting-
The earth, not just this village,
is
their mother."
Ah, native place! What a misfit I've become.
A dry flush colors my sunken cheeks.
My fellows' idiom sounds so alien,
. And I feel a foreigner in my land.
Ise~ ~fore.
me.
Villagers
in
Sunday best
Transact a meeting as if attending church.
