O, pitiful exertions of usurpers!
Like sleep, like snow, like death, to all — a shrine.
A ban on Kremlin! There's no ban on wings, and
Therefore — there is no ban upon Kremlin.
...О, самозванцев жалкие усилья!
Как сон, как снег, как смерть — святыни — всем.
Запрет на Кремль? Запрета нет на крылья!
И потому — запрета нет на Кремль!
«A girl sang in the church choir / Of all who are weary in foreign lands, / Of all the ships gone out to sea, / Of all who have forgotten their joy. Thus her voice sang, flying up to the dome, / And a ray of sun shone on her white shoulder, / And from the darkness all watched and listened ...»
«There a man burned / Fet How difficult to wander in the crowd / Pretending every day to be alive, / Recounting to the not-yet-living / The passions' tragic play. And, peering into nightmares, / Find order in disordered swirls of feeling, / So that by art's anemic glow / They recogniz...»
«The mournful waxworks has been open / For one year, two years, three years now. / An insolent and drunken crowd, / We run... The queen is waiting in her grave. She lies inside a coffin of glass, / She's neither dead nor living, / While people whisper endlessly / Immodest words about her...»
«In your innermost songs there are hidden / Fateful tidings of death. / A curse on sacred commandments, / And a profanation of joy. And such an alluring strength / That I'm ready to pass on the rumor / That you brought angels down / With your seductive beauty... And when you mock faith ...»