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The Prophet
Alexander Pushkin
My spirit wracked by thirst for grace,
I wandered in a darkling land
And at a crossing of the ways
Beheld a six-wing'd Seraph stand.
With fingers light as dream at night
He brushed mine eyes and they grew bright
Opening unto prophecies
Wild as a startled eaglet's eyes.
He touched mine ears. Then noise and sound
Poured into me from all around:
I heard the shudders of the sky,
The sweep of angel hosts on high,
The creep of beasts below in the seas,
The seep of sap in valley trees.
And leaning to my lips he wrung
Thereout my sinful slithered tongue
Of guile and idle caviling;
And with his bloody fingertips
He set between my wasting lips
A Serpent's wise and forkèd sting.
And with his sword he cleft my chest
And ripped my quaking heart out whole,
And in my sundered breast he pressed
A blazing shard of living coal.
There in the desert I lay dead
Until the voice from heaven said:
“Arise O Prophet!
Work My will,
Thou that hast now perceived and heard.
On land and sea thy charge fulfill
And burn Man's heart with this My Word.”
Alexander Pushkin
The Prophet
Translated by A.Z. Foreman
See also
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