«Rockets; fireworks. The blacker the skies, / The darker the passion of those ravaged days. / They fly and they burn. And the sky stays black. / And if you don’t survive an attack, / Then just for a minute, like this rocket steadfast, / You light someone else’s path with yourself.»
«Someone else’s woe — like a gadfly; / You wave it off, but it gets right back at you, / You’d like to go out but it’s late already, / The woe’s hot and muggy air, / No matter how you breathe, suffocating. / The woe doesn’t hear, a nagging hysteric, / It comes at night, moani...»
«Sunshine, downpour, or snow, on that day / Silence astounds. A person comes to stay. / Everything starts in silence. Like a dream / Of a person returning to silence, yet again. / O, victory’s last fireworks! Not words / Will tell us of happiness — water and grass. / Not guns will ma...»
«The day will come, the warblers’ loud chirps / Will sound in chorus, praising birdsome quirks, / Merrily, a dragonfly will don / Her brightest weekend eyes and keep them on. / Once again the skies will be for birds, / And the honey meadows — for lungworts. / Only those will be dimme...»