«Au déclin de l’âge, sur la pente des monts / J’ai taillé ton portrait dans le roc. / Plus sûrs que la plume gracile, / La hache, le pic et la cognée. / / Au pays du gel et des mâles / Et des visages tôt burinés, / Sans espoir, simple vanité, / Les traits d’une femme ...»
«He was walking from Bethany to Jerusalem, / Brooding over sad premonitions. The sun scorched the slope's prickly shrubs. / No smoke was rising over a nearby hut, / The air was hot and the reeds motionless, / And the calm of the Dead Sea lay still. And with a bitterness rivalling the sea's,...»
«And once more the autumn blasts like Tamerlane, / There is silence in the streets of Arbat. / Beyond the little station or beyond the haze / The impassable road is dark. So here it is, the latest one! And the rage / Subsides. It's as if the world had gone deaf... / A mighty, evangelical o...»
«The one people once called / King in jest, God in fact, / Who was killed, and whose implement of torture / Was heated by the warmth of my breast... / The disciples of Christ tasted death, / And the old gossips, and the soldiers, / And the procurator from Rome — all gone. / There, whe...»