«The cuckoo I asked / How many years I would live… The / Pine tops shivered, / A yellow shaft fell to the grass. / In the fresh forest depths, no sound… / I am going / Home, and the cool wind / Caresses my hot brow. »
«Why is our century worse than any other? / Is it that in the stupor of fear and grief / It has plunged its fingers in the blackest ulcer, / Yet cannot bring relief? / / Westward the sun is dropping, / And the roofs of towns are shining in its light. / Already death is chalking doors w...»
«Everything is looted, spoiled, despoiled, / Death flickering his black wing, / Anguish, hunger – then why this / Lightness overlaying everything? / / By day, cherry-scent from an unknown / Wood near the town. July / Holding new constellations, deep / At night in the transparent sk...»
«They wiped your slate / With snow, you’re not alive. / Bayonets twenty-eight / And bullet-holes five. / It’s a bitter present, / Love, but I’ve sewed it. / Russia, an old peasant / Killing his meat. »