Wow, what height is needed
Wow, what a height
it takes to sing the hymns of God-marriage —
the head will spin!
Wow, yes, what a height of Heaven
and the Communion of the Most Pure,
to remain a pure virgin
among the depraved nativity scenes of the city!
Wow, how much strength
Wow, how much strength,
Lord of strength!
It was You who raised me up,
by the clear sea, on the waters of the Epiphany,
who filled me with the beatitudes of the Resurrection!
From the living shrine
From the living shrine,
from the charity —
miracles, miracles!
The Mother of the Sea Beauty
leads round dances,
walks barefoot on the sea, carries a
treasury on Her little hands
and sings a wonderful song:
«My beloved children,
from the crack of the vine,
peace be upon you,
and from the inhabitants of heaven,
the joy of an abounding life.»
Hymn to virginity
The wise virgin–
praise!
You are the triumph of the Deity!
You are the pinnacle of knowledge,
You are the ideal of the universe,
You are the pinnacle of creation,
fortified by God.
O poor monk of mischief
O poor monk of mischief,
if you had known the beatitude of the Temple,
you would have clung to the relics of St. Evfrosinii
and admired the Royal Tabernacle
and left the bed of Sodom,
O poor monk of mischief.
O Most Blessed One
O Most Blessed One!
You are a shelter
in the wheel of generic programs,
against the dullness and ordinariness,
Militant Notre Dame,
Your kingdom is for ever and ever,
Your power raises you from the dead,
Your Veil is kept
on Your children of the earth.
Reign, then, most blessed Lady,
in the million-faced cathedrals.
I announce the hour of Your triumph.
Our Lady, come soon!
O inspiration of Christ
O inspiration of Christ —
The architecture of God civilization.
O inspiration of Christ —
the end of the age of rationality.
O inspiration of Christ,
soaring eagle wings.
O inspiration of Christ —
a life-giving joy.
The new Holy Russia dawn is engaged,
the ship of devilocivilization is sunk.
From the tomb of the Second Calvary of Solovki,
a stone is rolled away on the blood of millions,
singing symphonies of groans descend
from the New Eleon.
About the inspiration of Christ —
beautiful, virgin, new,
overshadows architects, architects —
The Holy Virgin prophesies.
Where are the Benelogim scum?
Leaky fishing nets?
The sky is wide open.
The inspiration of Christ!
What’s it?
What’s it?
Removal from the Cross.
Pieta.
I have risen in immortal bodies,
and I am blissful on Solovki.
In the calm sea night
i will pay my respects to the Mother of God
O hail, Virgin of Lights
O hail, Virgin of Lights,
sacred heart of poets.
Rejoice, composers and architects, the Beauty
that leads to heaven,
rejoice, the Pure Saviour.
A pure and holy Hall
A pure and holy Hall,
The combination of the Deity on the Cross —
The marriage bed,
hoops and match It,
To my divine beloved,
and at the Evening of Love,
be a partaker of the mysteries.
To the XXII Cathedral
O Cathedral!
The Pantocrator
himself is pitching His royal tent.
Oh, the Cathedral,
the prayer garden of the most sweet-smelling roses.
The wise Sophia,
homo seraphicus Christ.
The presence of a Deity
and the flutter of cherubic wings.
A treasure trove of secrets
The Almighty opened it a little.
And the song of the millions poured
out like a multiplying mirro.
The throne of the Warlike wife
raised above the world.
The demons froze, the snakes lurked.
The end of the world Pharisee!
The Most Pure glagolet on the tops of the mountains–
o Most Excellent Cathedral!
The Melchizedek priesthood
is proclaimed as a gift of gifts,
The second Calvary is the white Cross of Christ.
Fly, a new song —
on wings and winds,
The glory of the Virgin
thunders in all the worlds!
Solovki. Seraphim
They walked in hellish bodies
with broken livers
and broken eardrums,
like the shadows of a cave,
flattened gray
worse than cattle.
Permafrost.
And before accepting Christ,
they knew the whistling
desert with ghosts and ghouls.
There were no tears. We cried.
Songs of the Seraphim
In the white robes of God, the bride weeps,
The kindest of the good.
What are you crying about, our Mother?
— About Your children.
At the entrance to the Ark,
I stand and weep.
Empty cities.
Hot tears
on piles of ashes.
— O bring us salvation,
Mother of the Resurrection.
*
They went up the Axe
stairs. No one broke down.
They sang softly,
blissfully.
The Lamb’s song.
They slept in the barracks
in angelic vestments.
At minus 20°,
they warmed up in hot tears.
The Sabbath of Love was celebrated.
Zlatoust in gold-embroidered robes,
the fools
in ragged rags
stood at the Throne of the Lamb.
The Tomb of Solovetsky sang
sweet-voiced psalms.
Seraphic music and Marriage beds
for the brides who have been washed,
for the lambs who have been slain,
who have passed through the gates of peace.
For them only.
King Melchizedek with the Lady
The heavenly one met us,
and the golden rod
was in his hands.
He blessed
and received dear guests
in the eternal mansions.
*
Ah, the shirt is torn
and the body is covered with nails,
and the crown of thorns
is covered with a sweaty brow.
What would be there?
Worse than cattle, higher than angels.
What books?
The archistratigs sang.
The youths in white robes
were sleeping peacefully,
and the Mother of Heaven
was singing them a lullaby.