«It’s good that Russia has no Tsar, / it’s good that Russia’s just a dream, / it’s good that God has disappeared, that nothing’s real, except the stars / in icy skies, the yellow gleam / of dawn, the unrelenting years. It’s good that people don’t exist, / that nothingness is...»
«The sun fills my room, / Yellow dust drifts aslant. / I wake up and remember: / This is your saint’s day. That’s why even the snow / Outside my window is warm, / Why I, sleepless, have slept / Like a communicant.»
«Do you forgive me these November days? / In canals around the Neva fires fragment. / Scant is tragic autumn’s finery.»
«Our grandad’s outlandish dream, / the prison years of our heroes, / our hope and our heartfelt lament, / our prayer we hardly dared utter – / our dis-membered / dis-constituted, / dis-banded / Constituent Assembly.»