«You were sleeping, today, while I was looking about us / into the shadows, a horseman in patrol. / It was then I understood exactly how late it was: / how death is waiting on stage, and how everything passes, / and though it looks innocent to scribble these lines / poetry is no longer priv...»
«Bebo ao lar em pedaços, / À minha vida feroz, / À solidão dos abraços / E a ti, num brinde, ergo a voz… Ao lábio que me traiu, / Aos mortos que nada vêem, / Ao mundo, estúpido e vil, / A Deus, por não salvar ninguém.»
«Vivimos sin sentir el país a nuestros pies, / nuestras palabras no se escuchan a diez pasos. / La más breve de las pláticas / gravita, quejosa, al montañés del Kremlin. / Sus dedos gruesos como gusanos, grasientos, / y sus palabras como pesados martillos, certeras. / Sus bigotes de ...»
«To the memory of Marina Tsvetaeva As twenty-two years ago / No matter what the name, think death, no matter / What petal, 'tis in flames and under soles. / And yet to me, amid this groan and clatter, / Another loss outvoices all the tolls. / Why wasn't I – an arrow – meant to perish...»