The stars of death stood over us. And Russia, guiltless, beloved, writhed under the crunch of bloodstained boots, under the wheels of Black Marias..

Today I have so much to do: I must kill memory once and for all, I must turn my soul to stone, I must learn to live again. Unless ... Summer's ardent….

Give me bitter years of sickness, Suffocation, insomnia, fever, Take my child and my lover, And my mysterious gift of song This I pray at your liturg….

This cruel age has deflected me, like a river from this course. Strayed from its familiar shores, my changeling life has flowed into a sister channel….

That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest..

We thought: we're poor, we have nothing, but when we started losing one after the other so each day became remembrance day, we started composing poem….

Rising from the past, my shadow Is running in silence to meet me..

If I can't have love, if I can't find peace, / Give me a bitter glory..

No foreign sky protected me, no stranger's wing shielded my face. I stand as witness to the common lot survivor of that time, that place..

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves..

We aged a hundred years, and this happened in a single hour: the short summer had already died, the body of the ploughed plains smoked..

The word landed with a stony thud Onto my still-beating breast. Nevermind, I was prepared, I will manage with the rest. I have a lot of work to do to….

A loss, but who still mourns the breath of one woman, or laments one wife? Though my heart never can forget, how, for one look, she gave up her life..

Hands, matches, an ashtray. A ritual beautiful and bitter..

Mary Magdalene beat her breasts and sobbed, His dear disciple, stone-faced, stared. His mother stood apart. No other looked into her secret eyes. Nob….

The celebrations Of secret nonmeetings are empty, Unspoken conversations, Unuttered words. Glances that don't intersect Don't know where to come to r….

I have long had this premonition of a bright day and a deserted house.

Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of north—and it's autumn I've chosen as this year's….

Natural thunder heralds the wetness of fresh water high clouds to quench the thirst of fields gone dry and parched, a messenger of blessed rain, but ….

But here, in the murk of conflagration, where scarcely a friend is left to know we, the survivors, do not flinch from anything, not from a single blo….

Your voice is wild and simple. You are untranslatable Into any one tongue..