THE CLASSICS WITH QUILLS

By Yasen Vedrin

(Pearl Seeker)

High up above — where birds alone are soaring —

I love to drift, on widespread wings sustained.

To lead a talk with classics, while exploring

The timeless traces that in me remained.

There Dostoevsky with his Karamazovs I will meet,

And Gogol with his dead souls I will find.

They humble down my ego at Christ's feet,

When heavy grief leaves all my joy behind.

Tolstoy will wrap me in Resurrection's light,

And Pushkin with Onegin will shine clear.

While down below — with sword and fire bright —

The world will hiss with bitter rage and fear.

With Chekhov’s prose my loneliness I’ll heal,

Yesenin will become my haven white.

And Lermontov’s young passion I will feel,

Blending my sorrow with a pure delight.

And this vast Russia — grand, with leaves unspun,

With its white birches, lakes of crystal gleam —

When I would ask it: "What is Truth, under the sun?" —

I look to classics with their quills supreme...