To the Sun

Saul Tschernikovsky

1919

1

Hyacinth and mallow was I to God: lifelong
Only this pure sun fills, for each, the earth,
And an angel urges: “Bud, child, and bring forth
Among the biting thorns, your festive song.”
The damp field suckled me: the smell, so near,
Of crumbled clods, rose to my head: did he
Not have a father and a priest in the city
That he fetched me to be his…
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