Thirty years now Russia’s lived in fetters,
in Magadan, in Kolyma —
but the Russia that will live for ever
is the one now dying in Kolyma.
Россия тридцать лет живёт в тюрьме.
На Соловках или на Колыме.
И лишь на Колыме и Соловках
Россия та, что будет жить в веках.
Всё остальное — планетарный ад:
Прокля́тый Кремль, злощастный Сталинград.
Они достойны только одного —
Огня, испепелящего его.
«I see capital through the flurry / On this Monday night twenty-first. / Some do-nothing has made up the story / That love exists on the earth. And from laziness or from boredom / All believed, and thus they do live: / Waiting for meeting, fearing the parting, / And singing songs of love...»
«On the blooming lilac bushes / Sky is sowing the light rain. / Beats with wings upon the window / The white, the white Spirits' day. For a friend to be returning / From the sea - especial hour. / I am dreaming of the far shore, / Of the stone, sand and tower. I will enter, meeting ligh...»
«I know, that you are my reward / For years of labor and of pain, / For that unto the earthly pleasures / I never did myself betray, / For that I never ever told / Unto my loved one, "You are loved." / For that I did forgive all people / You'll be my angel from above.»
«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 /...»