Skeptic

In the evening and in the morning, early,
During the day and in the dead of night,
In great heat or freeze, midst hurricane –
I’m always swaying my head side to side,
Now burying my sight deep in the earth,
Now directing my steady gaze at the sky,
Listening intently to the rustle of trees –
As though to read therein my tea-leaved fate.
What way to choose, where leads my path?
Whom should I love and whom pursue?
Walk toward a temple – to pray to God,
Or into the forest – to murder passersby?

by Vladimir Solovyov

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