CHAPTER 25. THE PRISONER OF TIME.

February 25, 1837.

“Gazing at the world through the prison's breach,

An old woman in a man’s sackcloth—

A chimera of life among the tomb,

That had become to her a kindred home—

Let out something like a moan:

Since the world scorned,

Through the path of judicial canon,

Her foulness, her heinous deeds,

She tasted only torment,

At the sight of happy people,

At their laughter—her salvation,

In a cold, darker corner,

She often managed to find...

But the world’s breach so drew her!

The breach of freedom so played,

With the great color of being!

And therefore, tearing her eyes,

On the sharp ribbon of light,

Which is the source of life for all,

She, splashing darkness on her wounds,

With great thirst she rushed—

Like an ouroboros, where the snake,

Didn’t know why it circled—

To taste its own tail...

From the outside, having known man—

The impulses of feelings, wilder than a stream;

The movement of thoughts, whose face: a bloom,

More motley than Bordeaux drink—

The old woman with time realized,

That in that world, which is Earth,

More important than the essence of rituals,

Is their external sheen and gloss.

Flaring up,

She once exclaimed,

Turning her gaze to the light,

Instantly taking off her soul's visor,

That to be a man is a disgrace,

For by the will of something higher,

Condemned to crime,

Is that very race created by God:

Called "homo" by science!

At once the guards broke in,

Restoring peace in the darkness—

So that the old woman’s speeches wouldn't swirl,

That pay tribute to Satan,

They taught the gray-haired one a lesson,

Leaving a thunderous mark:

No matter how the rays might beckon,

One should not gaze upon the light!

Then she, having seen the advice,

Of that very will, which is stronger,

Than unseen words, having known the boots,

That are harder than the stones of Zambia,

Only rarely did she turn her cheeks,

To where the breach was:

In dreams woven with illusion,

She showed her rebellion,

Against the harsh, dry reality,

Constantly creating images,

Where her face was young, chalky,

And her figure was an amphora of wine,

She spun with the face of Ganymede—

And never was lame Aesop,

A hero in those plots,

Which like a kaleidoscope,

Intoxicated her consciousness.

Such is the world! All of us in dreams,

No matter how much we love wisdom,

Are drawn only by beauty!

The lovely creations of Morpheus!

In the name of the walk of life,

She preferred without hesitation,

Their essence instead of water,

For they allowed her to forget herself—

They were dearer than the ringing of gold,

For her who was no maiden,

For there she heard the bell passion!

As for the British romantic,

South Shields appeared in her dreams—

It lured with the loveliness of its attire,

And the color which is boxwood!

With feeling, Albius and Horace,

Paid her a harvest of bows—

Having seen reality, decimation,

They would have wished for.

Carelessly,

Bowing his knees, proud Byron,

Gently read her his poems—

He, like the Isthmus between hell-heaven,