On a spring-thawed patch,
Little Priestling of Marsh
Is staying
And saying his prayer.
His ragged black frock
Like a barely seen rock
Over tussock
And in tranquility of the reddish light
Little devils are out of sight;
And the evening grace
Has entwined him with delicate lace…
And the charms of the twilight,
And the rustling of space…
Quietly he prays,
And he smiles as he stays,
Bowing his head to the bog.
And with medicinal herbs
He would heal every hurt,
Every sickened and dying frog.
Then he would bless it and say,
“Now you’re free on your way,
You can go to your native log;
My heart is pleased
With every beast
And every creeper that exists”.
He resumes his quiet praying,
For the reed
That is swaying,
For a sickened beast’s hope,
For the Roman Pope…
Have no fear to be drown in a bog -
You’ll be saved by his blackened frock.
Easter, 1905
vip/Easter, 2005
* * *
Болотный попик
"Bowing his head to the bog"