THE PRISONER’S DREAM
P. POLIVANOV
A darksome night of winter,
Dead silence without end!
Where are you, my beloved,
My brave and faithful friend?
Your image, pure and lovely,
In spite of bolt and bar,
Before me comes; your fond, clear glance
Shines on me like a star.
The long, long years of parting,
With grief and longing rife,
The hand weighed down by bondage,
Pains of a shattered life—
Not all could dim that image,
Your sweet head, golden bright;
Still o’er my thoughts it reigneth,
Unchanged its magic might.
In this cold grave, I, living,
Am buried from the sun;
Monotonously, mournfully,
The years pass, one by one.
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