«Spring said nothing to me — it couldn't. / Perhaps it was at a loss for words. / But down the murky length of the station / Lights came fleetingly to life. Only, from the platform someone greeted / Someone in the dark blue night. / Only, on my miserable head / A crown shone faintly.»
«They'll not exterminate you now, / As that mad leader dreamt they might. / Fate or God may lend a hand, / But the Russian man is tired... Tired of suffering, of vainglory — / It's time to enjoy oblivion. / Tired of rushing blindly forward — / It's time, perhaps, for demolition... ....»
«I imagine everything wrapped in a beatific mist: / Statues, arches, gardens, flowerbeds. / The dark waves of the lovely river... Once the memories start to flow, / it means ... But perhaps all this is nonsense. Like a wild beast from its lair, crouching, / Sick, I crawl into the cold of Pa...»
«Boiling up over the years, / A fury that drives on crazy, / Fury with the champions of freedom, / Fury with the adherents of the yoke, / Fury with the dregs and the toffs — / Different-colored specimens / Of the same "worldly wisdom", / With the world and with my native land. Fury? ...»