I was washing outside in the darkness,the sky burning with rough stars,and the starlight, salt on an axe-blade.The cold overflows the barrel.The gate’s locked,the land’s grim as its conscience.I don’t think they’ll find the new weaving,finer than truth, anywhere.Star-salt is melting in the barrel,icy water is blackening,death’s growing purer, misfortune saltier,the earth’s moving nearer to truth and to dread.

I was washing outside in the darkness,the sky burning with rough stars,and the starlight, salt on an axe-blade.The cold overflows the barrel.The gate’s locked,the land’s grim as its conscience.I don’t think they’ll find the new weaving,finer than truth, anywhere.Star-salt is melting in the barrel,icy water is blackening,death’s growing purer, misfortune saltier,the earth’s moving nearer to truth and to dread.

– Innokenty Annensky –

The Silver Age of Russian Culture: An Anthology

© License assigned to YouCanQuoteME. License CC BY-NC 4.0

📲 Copy this QR code to share the phrase wherever you want