In the yard, by the wet stone, Gerasim keeps his silence whole. Hands like wood, back bent to labor, eyes that carry more than speech can hold. The mistress rules the house like weather, sharp as frost that bites the pane. He obeys with the grave calm of earth, and says nothing to her name. Tatyana weeps, then leaves him behind. The world turns her like a wheel. A little dog with a black, bright coat comes trotting in, soft-footed, real. He feeds her crumbs, he names her gently, At his heel she is pure breath and trust, the last warm thing in that house of things! One small heart, one hard world! One small heart, one hard world! A mute man’s mercy, a soft name to keep! They whispered low, a heavy noose. My dog, my soul, my only light, Held in my hands, kept out of sight! Then the order comes down cold, simple as iron on bone: take what you love, and make it vanish, and walk the path alone. By the river, the black water waits. No crowd can soften the fact. He ties the burden to his hands, and carries what cannot be brought back. No speech, no plea, no widening sky! Only the stroke of an oar! And that one life, light as a breath, gone under, then heard no more! What can a silent man save, when the silence says more! When the silence says more! One small heart, one hard world! One small heart, one hard world! A mute man’s mercy, a cruel command come true! They whispered low, a heavy noose. My dog, my soul, my only light, Lost to the river in the night! He returns to the road alone, to the open fields, the raw, far air. The house remains with its hard white walls, his grief walks out and stays there. The silence.
