«Not mystery and not sadness, / Not the wise will of fate — / These meetings have always given / Impression of fight and hate. And I, having guessed your coming's / Minute and circumstance, / In the bent arms the slightly / Tingling feeling did sense. And with dry fingers I mangled /...»
«Yes, I had loved those meetings of the nights — / Upon small table a glass filled with ice, / Above black coffee thick and smelly steam, / From the red heater heavy winter heat, / The stinging mirth of literary parable / And first look of the friend, helpless and terrible.»
«Do not send a dove in my direction, / Do not write tumultuous notes at all, / Do not fan my face with the March breeze. / I have now entered a green heaven, / Where there's calm for body and for soul / Underneath the shady maple trees. And from here I can see a town, / Booths and barrac...»
«Has my fate really been so altered, / Or is this game truly truly over? / Where are winters, when I fell asleep / In the morning in the sixth hour? In a new way, severely and calmly, / I now live on the wild shore. / I can no longer pronounce / The tender or idle word. I can't believe ...»