«We live, not feeling the earth beneath us / At ten paces our words evaporate. / But when there’s the will to crack open our mouths / our words orbit the Kremlin mountain man. / Murderer, peasant killer. His fingers plump as grubs. / His words drop like lead weights. / His laughing coc...»
«Our lives no longer feel ground under them. / At ten paces you can’t hear our words. But whenever there’s a snatch of talk / it turns to the Kremlin mountaineer, the ten thick worms his fingers, / his words like measures of weight, the huge laughing cockroaches on his top lip, / the g...»
«Our senses grew numb in this country of fear; / At ten paces they can’t our talk overhear. / But if we start a chat on occasion, / Each would speak of the Kremlin Caucasian. Fat as maggots, his thick fingers wriggle and crawl, / Sure as stone weights, his ponderous sentences fall; / His...»
«The Christmas trees are shining / With tinsel gold in the forests, / The toy wolves are gazing / With scary eyes in the bushes. O my prophetic sorrow, / O my silent freedom, / And the ever-laughing crystal / Of the lifeless heavenly vault!»