How leap beyond quietude,
if quietude is Heaven’s peak?
Yet ogres, devils, drenched
in fury’s blast, still rage—
haunt my ancestors’ faded lives.
Were my name in Greek inscribed,
it’d echo quietude’s refrain,
in Slavic tongue grown parched.
Yet this floats—a princess’ cup:
one taught me travel blooms
in sleep, a drift divine—
and now he reads in others’ eyes
who’ve sailed through night’s embrace.
I stand with empyrean light.
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