Z. Shishova

HOW strange, oh, God, as in sleep’s euthanasia,

Thy earth today.

Behind the window, each like an acacia,

The poplars sway.

From my small muff my hand withdrawing slightly,

I find it dry.

And from my furs, as though May touched them lightly,

Faint perfumes fly.

And through the night dark troubled dreams are rearing:

They choke and cling.

How shall I then forbear at last from fearing,

Oh, God, thy Spring?