I br br Not believing in the Resurrection, br we strolled in the cemetery. br -- You know, the earth everywhere br reminds me of those hills br . . . . . . . . . br . . . . . . . . . br where Russia breaks off br above the black, deaf sea. br br II br br The broad meadow runs away br from the monastery's slopes. br I really didn't want to go so far br south of Vladimir's expanse, br but to stay in this wooded, dark, br and holy foolish place with such a dizzy nun br means disaster is in store. br br III br br I kiss the sunburned elbow br and a waxen patch of forehead. br I know it is still white br under the tawny golden locks. br I kiss the wrist where a bracelet br has left a white band. br The flaming summer of the Taurides br causes such marvels. br br IV br br How quickly you tanned, br came up and kissed the poor Savior, br couldn't tear yourself away -- br but in Moscow, you were proud. br Only the name is left for us -- br a marvelous, drawn-out sound. br Take this sand being poured br with my hands.