I've been given a body. What should I do with it,
So singular, so my own?
For this joy, quiet, to live and breathe,
Who, tell me, am I to thank?
I am gardener, but flower too;
In the world's dungeon I am not alone.
On the windowpanes of eternity,
My breath, my warmth has already settled.
On it a pattern is pressed,
Unrecognizable of late.
Even if moment's gloom streams down -
The pattern, so dear, won't be crossed out!
-- Osip Mandelstam (1909)
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