You are a woman; you’re a book of books,

You are a scroll furled up upon impression;

Its lines replete with words and ruminations,

And every instant’s wild in its crooks.

You are a woman, the witches brew creation,

Which sets on fire hardly reaching lips,

But fire-swallowers subdue their own shrieks

By drowning mad torture in laudations.

You are a woman and in this you’re just,

From the inception crowned in constellations,

A deity epitome within our chasms!

We serve you grinding rocky foundations,

We bear iron burden for your sake,

And pray to you with fervor in your wake!

Valery Bryusov