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# Varlam Shalamov on his poems, which were born on Sundays and survived
- URL: https://theparnassian.com/en/peshchernoi-pyliu-sinei-pleseniu-moi-ispachkany-stikhi/
- Published: 2024-08-10T09:10:34.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-02T18:39:06.000Z
- Author: Alexandr Radayev
- Tags: Books

With cave dust, with blue mould  
My poems are smeared.  
They were born on Sundays,  
Sparing of words and quiet.  
They grew up fast, like beasts,  
Baptised with Epiphany snow  
In frosty darkness, in marsh damp.  
And yet they survived.  
They do not boast of ancestors,  
They care nothing for descendants.  
With their granite cage  
They will be content for many years.  
Now, woken by birds  
That are not nightingale voices,  
They cry out about what they always dream of  
In the cosiness of stone and forests.  
Anyone who knows my life will forgive me  
For analogies  
Drawn from zoology  
And from the edge of reason.

*Literal translation*

**Varlam Shalamov**