by Nadezhda Stroganova, 1967
«All’s taken away: my love and my power. / The body, thrown into city it hates, / Finds no joy in the sunlight. With every hour, / The blood grows colder in my veins. The merry Muse is lately full of grief: / She looks at me and doesn’t make a sound. / She lays her head, wearing the da...»
«Words’ ease and freshness — is it less / For us than for an artist — vision, / For actors — voice and hand precision, / For beauties — beauty and finesse? The gift you have is not from earth, / Don’t try to save it for yourself: / We are condemned — we know this well —...»
«To V. A. Komarovsky This quiet April day imparted / Words full of strangeness and mystique. / You knew that I was still faint-hearted / From the distressing Maundy week. I didn’t hear the ringing clang / That swam up high in azure glaze. / Either a copper laughter rang / Or silver te...»
«Next to the river, this dark town — / My blissful crib at first, and then, / The marital bed where I lied down, / With garlands hanging overhead, / Your youthful seraphs up above, / A town loved with bitter love. The platform for my prayers, you / Were gloomy, quiet and austere. / M...»