«The Roman empire in its period of decline / retained the appearance of firm order. / The chief was in place, his comrades-in-arms by his side, / life was fine, judging by the reports. / / But critics will say that the word “comrades-in-arms” isn’t a Roman item, / that this mistake...»
«The poet has no rivals / either on the street or in his destiny. / And when he cries out lo the whole world, / it’s not about you, but about himself. / / He raises his delicate hands op lo heaven, / expending his life and powers drop by drop. / Burning out, he asks for forgiveness, ...»
«Poet has no contestants — no matter / If it’s street walk or destiny’s course. / When he screams to the world, every letter / Tells the story of his — not of yours. Skinny hands raised to heaven, and draining, / Drop by drop, bringing life to the brim, / He begs mercy, burns out;...»
«Let’s dream up a despot, / who will role alone in our hearts / from the most childish age / right down to noble gray hairs. / / Let’s have him grow a luxuriant moustache / and let’s put in rapacious eyes, / pull on jackboots that make no noise, / and let’s all vote yes. / ...»