By Yurii Zhivago

The sitr is over. I step forth on the boards.
Leaning against an upright at the entrance,
I strain to make the far-off echo yield.
A cue to the events that may come in my day.

Night and its murk transfix and pin me,
Staring through thousands of binoculars.
If Thou be willing, Abba, Father,
Remove this cup from me.

I cherish this, Thy rigorous conception,
And I consent to play this part therein;
But another play is running at this moment,
So, for the present, release me from the cast.

And yet, the order of the acts has been schemed and plotted,
And nothing can avert the final curtain’s fall.
I stand alone. All else is swamped by Pharisaism.
To live life to the end is not a childish task.