Marina Tsvetaeva
- Some — made of stone, others — of clay..., by Andrey Kneller
- Who`s made of stone, who`s made of mud..., by Ilya Shambat
«The green hairdo / Maiden's breasts, / Oh, then birch tree, / Why have you stared at the pond? What is the wind whispering to you? / What is the sand ringing about? / Or do you want the moon's comb / In your plaits-branches? Open, open the mystery / Of your forest dreams / I have f...»
«I left the native home, / Left my blue Russia. / The birch wood in three stars over the pond / Warms my old mother's sadness. The moon like a golden frog / Has sprawled on the calm water. / Like the bloom of the apple tree, / Gray hair has appeared in my father's beard. I will not soon...»
«The rain is sweeping / Willow litter about the meadows. / Wind, replete with fagots of leaves, — / I am a hooligan, like you. I like it when the blue thickets, / As oxen with a heavy trudge, / Muddy their trunks, on their knees. / Their bellies rattling with foliage. Here it is, my o...»
«I am the last poet of the village, / The plank bridge is modest in its songs. / I am standing for the farewell mass / Of the birch trees incensing with their foliage. The candle of the waxen flesh / Will burn away with a golden flame, / And the moon's wooden clock / Will wheeze my twelf...»