The dull sounds of gas flares
Above the dead brightness of heads,
The tedium’s black contagion
From deserted tables,
And there, among the sallow-faced,
Harbouring the anguish of the habit,
Trying to solve on the discoloured pages
The odious puzzle of being.
Through the tall gates,
From beyond the Okhta marshes,
On the un-travelled track,
Through the un-mown meadow,
Past the cordon of night,
At the chime of Easter bells,
Come; sit to the table with me.