Not I, shall claim, to know what is now next
After the summer sun subsides and sets
Below the roads which all scatter from here,
It is not I who knows, not I indeed.
Not long ago, a woman sat atop
A bed without her clothes, counting copecks;
A cotton shawl rested upon a chair,
And her kerchief neatly folded by it.
Her blue eyes hum a gentle song that day,
They swell in agony, as another
Man leaves quietly from her room with speed.
Her heart beats pleadingly, as if to ask
Forgiveness from her God, the supposed
Holy Father, who sees all his children
In equal love and, I should add, disdain.
How her chest heaves in despair over what
Had just transpired, she sobs as if to beg
the Almighty Father to look away,
Although her God could have delivered her
From such a life, He opts to watch instead;
How merciful He is, a God of love!
Outside she knows no respite from her deeds,
Her neighbours look upon her with such scorn
And snicker as she passes by in shame.
A sinner she is baptized as, as though
It had been her own choice to live this life.
In haughtiness, they may proclaim, that God
Gave her a chance to choose the life for her
And it was she who chose to be a whore.
Yet how could she desire to live like this?
Her father was a drunk and did not work,
Her mother died when she was but a child,
And her new father’s wife is consumptive
With three children to look after herself,
Not one of them can work, not one but she!
And what shall she do as her family
Cries out to God for generosity?
Shall she go to school as her mother dies?
And if this is the path to go, from where
Will she draw funds? What money does she own?
Should she ignore a child in need of food?
If not, what job, what place, would employ her
With wage to feed a family of five?
In fact, what place shall pay her more than what
She needs if she should live a frugal life?
What choices she has been given, look at
The life she has to choose! To live forever
Upon the cost of others on the street,
As beggars dressed in rags and dirt who will
Without a doubt, perish when winter comes,
Or delve in sin, in order to provide
What seemingly that God cares not to give.
What grand a choice dear Sofya now has!
The gravity of her next decision
Shall now make a martyr of a maiden
Or make now a harlot of a hero.
And thus she sobs, as she is robbed of heart,
Of soul, of hope. Yesterday she had woke
To such the same, and more to come,
If only God, and I do beg thee God,
That she will be delivered from such strife.
For now, for her, today, it seems, that the
Next day shall bring not but the same for her.
However I claim not to know what’s next
After the summer sun subsides and sets.