«And Pushkin crumples into blueish brittle / Snow’s blanket. And he knows this is the end… / The cruel bullet’s sting is true and it’ll / Take poet’s lifeblood with its flighted trend. / The bloodied shirt… The fur cape now abandoned. / The sledge’s runners’ rattles seem to ...»
«He lifeless fell. And by my hand / A savage courage it was leading. / A needle’s useless – understand – / To staunch a swordsman’s wounded bleeding. / My debt’s repaid. No wonder now / I find my conscience reminisces / About the purest love and how / For blood blood’s paid ...»
«I find a sweet fatigue in silence and in dreams, / In languidness of sloth and din of artless chanting, / I find the roostered fringe of towel’s white enchanting – / And all the stern-faced icons’ ancient sooty streams. / Beneath the flyblown fetid rustle turns each day, / Imbued wit...»
«For you with aching hope I shall now wait, / And all this year I’ll wait for you – / Let you alone but sweetly set your bait / With promises for ever too. The silence of sad fate – you are it all. / A random light in dark of earth, / The untold mystery of debauchery’s fall / Tha...»