«The city’s gone, the final window gazed, / As if alive, with melancholy, stark… / This seems to me — a strange and foreign place, / It smells of burning and the fields are dark. But once the hesitant crescent, again, / Slashed the curtain of the thunderous cloud: / We watched: A tir...»
«O, there are words that cannot be repeated, / Whoever said them — overspent his due. / The only things that cannot be depleted / Are God’s forgiveness and the heaven’s blue.»
«The pillow’s just as hot when I turn it over. And now a second candle is guttering, and crows are cawing louder than ever. Not a wink… And it’s too late even to think of sleep. White, blindingly white – a blind on a white window. Good morning!»
«The pillow is already hot / On both its sides. / The second candle’s at / Its end and ravens’ cries / Are now resounding near. / I didn’t sleep this night, / Too late for sleep I fear, / Oh, how unbearably white / Is this curtain here. / Welcome!»