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170
Z. Shishova
"HOW STRANGE, OH, GOD"
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?
