«A see-through shroud now disperses / And melts unnoticed on the sod. / The spring, so very cold and merciless, / Is killing off each swelling bud. So frightful of the early death, / That I can’t look at God’s creation. / I feel the grief King David left, — / Millenniums of desolat»
«Why is it that you still beguile me — / As wind, stone, bird — and all the likes? / Why is that you smile on me — / With sudden summer lightning strikes? Don’t touch me, let’s not start anew! / I’ll tend to my prophetic ways… / A drunken fire staggers through / The swamp ...»
«The empty skies with a transparent gloss, / The structure of the prison, large and white, / The song in the Procession of the Cross / Over Volkhov, that turns blue in the light. September’s gale strips the birches’ torsos, / Beats in the branches, hollering, irate, / This city’s sti...»
«I Smell of burning. The marshes are singeing / For four weeks, with the peat bog dried up. / And today, even birds have quit singing / And the aspen that shivered has stopped. God, Himself, sees the sun with dismay, / And since Easter, the drought has spread. / And a one-legged stranger ...»