Staggering, Yozhov walked in silence for a long time, and suddenly he waved his hand in the air and began to declaim in a dull, choking voice, which sounded as though it issued from his stomach:
“Life has cruelly deceived me, I have suffered so much pain.”
“These, dear boy, are my own verses,” said he, stopping short and nodding his head mournfully. “How do they run? I’ve forgotten. There is something there about dreams, about sacred and pure longings, which are smothered within my breast by the vapour of life. Oh!”
“The buried dreams within my breast Will never rise again.”
“Brother! You are happier than I, because you are stupid. While I—”
“Don’t be rude!” said Foma, irritated. “You would better listen how they are singing.”
“I don’t want to listen to other people’s songs,” said Yozhov, with a shake of the head. “I have my own, it is the song of a soul rent in pieces by life.”
And he began to wail in a wild voice:
“The buried dreams within my breast Will never rise again... How great their number is!”
“There was a whole flower garden of bright, living dreams and hopes. They perished, withered and perished. Death is within my heart. The corpses of my dreams are rotting there. Oh! oh!”