«8 Moscow — what a giant / And strangely-mannered home! / In Russia all are homeless. / We all to you will come. A knife behind a boot-leg, / A shoulder brand in shame. / From far away us all / You will call all the same. Upon the penal brandings, / On every kind of ill — / A b...»
«9 With a red brush / The mountain-ash burned: / The leaves were falling / And I was born. Hundreds of belltowers / Argued at least. / It was the Saturday: / John the Baptist. And in my teeth now / I want to crush / The hot ashberry's / Bitter brush.»
«1 In a shady ring my eyes / She surrounded — insomnia. / With a shady wreath insomnia / Did my eyes bind. At night — the same! / To idols don't pray. / Idol-worshipper — I'll give / Your secret away. To you — day's not enough, / Fire of sun above! You pale-faced one, we...»
«3 In my giant city it is night. / From the sleepy home I alight / People think: Daughter and wife / And I recall just this: Night. On my way blows the wind of July / And somewhere music in a window — barely. / Ah, now the wind will blow until dawn / Into the chest through the chest's...»