«The sun fills my room, / Yellow dust drifts aslant. / I wake up and remember: / This is your saint’s day. That’s why even the snow / Outside my window is warm, / Why I, sleepless, have slept / Like a communicant.»
«Do you forgive me these November days? / In canals around the Neva fires fragment. / Scant is tragic autumn’s finery.»
«Our grandad’s outlandish dream, / the prison years of our heroes, / our hope and our heartfelt lament, / our prayer we hardly dared utter – / our dis-membered / dis-constituted, / dis-banded / Constituent Assembly.»
«In early autumn sweetly wistful, / there is a short but wonderous interim, / when days seem made as though of crystal, / with evenings luminously dim... Without their tillers, empty fields look wider; / where sickles ravaged in the harvester’s ebb, / a single thread left by a spider / ...»