By Marina Tsvetayeva
A soul that's ignorant of measure,
A fanatic's soul and a flagellant’s,
A soul that’s longing for the lash.
A soul - which, like a butterfly, leaps
From a chrysalis,
To the nearest executioner!
And a soul that resents,
Refusing to swallow, the offensive fact
That sorcerers are no longer burnt alive.
Like a tall pitchy resin harness
The smoke is beaming upwards
From under a hairshirt...
— A sister of Savonarola —
A soul which surely deserves of that blazing fire.