Alexander Blok
- They will bury us deep, once we’re dead..., by Andrey Kneller
- We`ll be buried and modest grave mounds..., by Vladimir Gurvich
«Bursting himself through bushes, as if from the snare / Of Margarete’s tight hot lips of purple, / While the whites of her eyes stared, / Curled, flicked, grew firm, shone like a nightingale. It was like the smell from grass. Like mercury / Hanging in the mad rain between bird-cherry tree...»
«A swarm of dust starting from the horizon / And pouring out across Sunday, everywhere, / Like a shower breaking through a bedroom window, / Did not yet reach the house. It propelled everything towards the dinner hour / While the third rain was occurring, / Like a whirlpool flinging a bicy...»
«O childhood! Scoop ladle of heart’s profundity! / O native groves and forests where / Confidence in self was firmly planted, / My inspirer, my overseer! What tears have dried themselves on window panes! / What wasps devoured the festering roses! / How often chaotic turmoil fades away / ...»
«Could I forget them? Kinfolk, / The seas? Caress a rail ticket? / For an orgy of the senses — a trap? / In a tempest — the crowd, a horde? A window, a compartment, provisions? / To get off somewhere? Unload somewhere? Settle down? / I relish the torment. — These scars! / Your lion...»