«I am the last poet of the villages / the plank bridge lifts a plain song / I stand at a farewell service / birches swinging leaves like censors The golden flame will bum down / in the candle of waxen flesh / and the moon a wooden clock / will caw caw my midnight On the track in the blu...»
«They are drinking here again, brawling, sobbing, / to the amber woes of the accordion. / They curse their luck and they hark back / to a Russia — a Moscow — of other days. For my part, I duck my head, / my eyes foundering in wine, / rather than look fate in the face, / I think of so...»
«Trees like government clerks / trying to enter every house, / you may have been gypsies once — / that was a long time ago, / now there are wire fences around you. / And you make a lot of noise, / narrow streets, / closed in by rooftops. Suddenly doors open, / a whispering — / ...»
«As the world changes, I change! / My name does not name me. / One death only would be strange, / I was born to be the unity / Of many people. My blood would never cool. / How many dead skins / I have tom away from my body! / What is it that wins? / If only my mind were clairvoyant / ...»