Take this air of young-damp earth
At eve: this same night again repeated
As if rehearsing its rebirth
Until death itself defeated.
How many years in bright sweet hell
Ourselves devised: shade of scented
Pistil wove the fragrant cell,
Starved slaves by rotted meat tormented.
But from afar the spirit fasted,
Time’s rushing water turned to blood.
The bud’s white blooms have lasted
Longer than the killing flood.
Louder than the sun
Toll bells of inmost turning.
From burning roof to burning
Word we win again what’s long been won.
Image: Arkhip Kuindzhi, Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, 1901