(In the Literary Studio "Inspiration," Prokhlаdny)
From the window on the second floor I gaze upon the cemetery's lanes: Lifeless, trembling in the air, A mourning wreath decays in pain...
And stubbornly the old hill speaks: "All are equal, nothing's eternal here— Whether calm or storm marked your weeks, Whether careless or sincere!"
Different headstones mark each grave, Yet tomb's decay belongs to all the same. If sin ruled in the life you gave, Let not your soul resist its claim.
At the window on the second floor I remember: death holds no sway o'er the holy; Who serve the Most High evermore, In paradise's eternity believe, not lowly!
