THIS RUSSIAN SOIL by ANNA ADREYEVNA GORENKO

In all the world no people are so tearless,
So proud, so simple as we are. -- 1922

In lockets for a charm we do not wear it,
In verse about its sorrows do not weep,
With Eden's blissful vales do not compare it,
Untroubled does it leave our bitter sleep.
To sell it is a flagrant thought that never,
Not even in our hearts, unknown, takes root.
Before our eyes its image does not hover,
When we are beggared, sick, despairing, mute.
It is mud on our shoes, it is rubble,
It is sand on our teeth, it is slush,
It is pure, taintless dust that we crumble,
That we pound, that we mix, that we crush.
But it's ours, our own, and will open one day
To receive and embrace us and turn us to clay.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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