«What use are words and quill pens / When on my heart this rock weighs heavy? / A convict dragging his restraints, / I carry someone else’s memory. / I used to live in cities grand / And love the company of the living, / But now I must dig up graves / In fields and valleys of oblivion...»
«Rockets; fireworks. The blacker the skies, / The darker the passion of those ravaged days. / They fly and they burn. And the sky stays black. / And if you don’t survive an attack, / Then just for a minute, like this rocket steadfast, / You light someone else’s path with yourself.»
«Someone else’s woe — like a gadfly; / You wave it off, but it gets right back at you, / You’d like to go out but it’s late already, / The woe’s hot and muggy air, / No matter how you breathe, suffocating. / The woe doesn’t hear, a nagging hysteric, / It comes at night, moani...»
«Sunshine, downpour, or snow, on that day / Silence astounds. A person comes to stay. / Everything starts in silence. Like a dream / Of a person returning to silence, yet again. / O, victory’s last fireworks! Not words / Will tell us of happiness — water and grass. / Not guns will ma...»