«From a frost-chilled / line of poetry / my anguish will drop / like a ripe berry. Rosehip juice will dye / fine crystals of snow — / and a stranger will smile / on his lonely way. Blending dirty sweat / with the purity of a tear, / he will carefully collect / the tinted crystal...»
«Our tools are primitive / and simple: / a rouble’s worth of paper, / a hurrying pencil, we need no more / to build a castle — / high in the air — / above the world’s bustle. Dante needed nothing else / to build gates / into that Hell hole / founded on ice.»
«They say we plough shallow, / always tripping and slipping, / but it’s hard to plough boldly / on the soil we’ve been given. We plough in a graveyard / just tickling the topsoil, / afraid our blades may turn up / bones of dead people.»
«Pursued by howling foes, / I run a mortal race; / The newly fallen snow / Is so nice for chase. / / The hooting, tally-ho'ing / Surrounds me, high-pitched. / Saliva bubbles and foams in / The jaws of an old bitch. / / The world of rimy snouts, / Of canine bloodshot eyes, / ...»