«All the ways to past are now closed, / What the past for me today, what for? / What do you see there? — The bloody stones, / Or the bricked up surely so heavy door? / Or the echo, which is still repeating / Words, and never could this action stop, / I am asking it to end, but really / ...»
«The paths into the past have been cut off long ago, / But what do I need the past now for? / What is there? Bloody tombstones? / Or a bricked-in door, / Or an echo, which still cannot / Keep silent, even though I keep begging for it?.. / The very same thing happened to this echo, / Tha...»
«I was feeding the flock of keys out of my hand / To a beating of wings. I was standing on tiptoe, / My hands reaching out to the splashing and screaming / My sleeve was rolled up and night brushed my elbow. And it was pitch dark. And there was a pond / And waves. And the love-birds and such...»
«Lors d'une musique pleine de tristesses / Je vois une grève jaune, la volée / D'une voix de femme qui part sans cesse / L'élan des arbres affolés. La prime neige sous la voile grise / Du ciel parmi les champs éteints, / La voie des grues que rien n'irise / Chassées par cette neige...»