«Should I tell you about all the fools of the world / Who the fate of the entire humanity hold? Should I tell you about all scumbags, dead clowns, / Who pass into history in white crowns? But what for? / ……….It’s quiet under a Paris bridge, / I don’t care if after me there’s the»
«What about people? What do I need them for? / Here is a man pulling a bull, / A saleswoman with legs and breasts galore, / a kerchief, thighs round and full. Nature? For what reason? / Snow or rain or heat is mingling / With angst in any season, / Like a mosquito’s jingling. There ar...»
«With this inhuman fate / How can one argue? How can one fight? / This is mirage, illusion. / Still this blue evening yet / Is my domain, possession. And the sky is red between the trees / While it is pearly on the sides… / In lilacs the nightingale still whistles. / The ant crawls i...»
«Spring exultation, nightingales, the moon / on southern seas – they make my poor head spin / with boredom. More than that. I disappear. / The real me lives elsewhere. Far to the North. Berlin, poor Russian Paris, filthy Nice – / a dream from which I soon will find release. Petersburg. ...»