Not Believing In The Resurrection

I Not believing in the Resurrection, we strolled in the cemetery. -- You know, the earth everywhere reminds me of those hills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . where Russia breaks off above the black, deaf sea. II The broad meadow runs away from the monastery's slopes. I really didn't want to go so far south of Vladimir's expanse, but to stay in this wooded, dark, and holy foolish place with such a dizzy nun means disaster is in store. III I kiss the sunburned elbow and a waxen patch of forehead. I know it is still white under the tawny golden locks. I kiss the wrist where a bracelet has left a white band. The flaming summer of the Taurides causes such marvels. IV How quickly you tanned, came up and kissed the poor Savior, couldn't tear yourself away -- but in Moscow, you were proud. Only the name is left for us -- a marvelous, drawn-out sound. Take this sand being poured with my hands.