Treasure Island

Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok

(28 November 1880 – 7 August 1921 / Saint Petersburg)

All Perished, All!


All perished, all! The sun, in flame and brilliance,
As did it long before, the years' circle fulfils.
A sorrow grave deplores the past existence -
That was so beautiful - under the solemn hills.
And in the black night a white specter-mist
Waits other shades, the silent one and grievous.

Oh, whitening shade, again you will obtain
Crowds of others, lost of past, entire.
A night will pass, come a long day again -
Again will rise, in its self-scorching mire,
Sun of the day, the sun of golden fire,
And will again burn the sad hills and plain.

Submitted: Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, November 20, 2013

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