Calming the Storm

Have fallen towards ground with gift unseen,
By shining with immortal light through ages.

A lengthy path of victory achieved,
It seems it should be like a dawn rising high,
Just like a banner for all people that have ever lived,
The truth that’s one for all, for you and I.

Yet, there are strange things we can see:
The portraits of the ones who took the lives before
Are hanging honoured right where the people sit,
And in the rooms of government and then at every door.

And in every town and every place,
A great genius and a villain can be met,
Watching from monuments always,
Calling to Mausoleum with his cap hung from head.

A lesson from the history has not been learned,
Yet, still the dawn comes so soft and tender,
A time will come, God’s name they’ll carry on,
And Russian Tsar will be remembered.

Without chafes, it still cannot be there,
As Christ has told in Parable of seeds in words alone,
A field left alone in immutable care,
For time of harvest before Judgment will be done.[6 - Evangelic Parable of the Sower, of wheat and chafes (Matthew 13, 24–30; 36–43).]

* * *

Together with the Virgin Mary,
A Mother of the Earth they call,
They pray to her Son in a glory:
Oh, dear Lord, forgive us all!

Remember us the sinners,
Protect the ones we love,
The souls inconsolable
Give us the strength now from above.

By faith and by the prayer, —
We shall keep the world good,
May it will sound will love —
A hymn of Motherhood!

A Prayer to Virgin Mary

Oh, Mary, a Mother of God,
Say a prayer for our world!
It forgot a covenant of love,
With the son of darkness it has got along.

It hates and slanders against each other,
It kills or it cripples all in half,
A son rose against father
It poured a golden idol-calf.

There is no Motherland or church,
As all Ham’s children have been born,
A bile and emptiness in words they touch,
Their hearts with awful deceit burn.

Oh, Mary Virgin, Mother of God,
Say a prayer for our world, we call,
Ask the Holy Son from all our heart,
To send us peace, once and for all!

The Cook

In one monastery of the saints,
Which are so many through the world,
Worked special cook, he was not faint,
With eastern blood in every thought.

He was all pleasant with his soul,
He cooked so fine and baked the bread,
Ways how with four he there followed, —
Was something that nobody ever knew or had:

Pancakes, the cakes, and loaf bread,
An Easter cake, – he could persuade,
Whatever’s called, it wasn’t bad,
Without books, he cooked so great.

A merry one, he liked the jokes,
And always spoke without angry speech,
And just like vegetables stewed in oven he would poke,
He clearly knew the borders he should never reach.

And then they suddenly announce to me,
That he is buried in a ground, he is gone.
In his last journey they have sent him
And it was only me who wasn’t timely told.

I was away from home and way too far,
And even though I was no relative if ever,
I still felt saddened with a mental scar,
As soul of cook was gone forever.

I went to church to light a candle,