Poems Are My Link With The Times,

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.

I Myself, From The Very Beginning, Seemed To Myself Like Someone's Dream Or Delirium Or A Reflection In Someone Else's Mirror, Without Flesh, Without Meaning, Without A Name. Already I Knew The List Of Crimes That I Was Destined To Commit.

The Stars Of Death Stood Over Us. And Russia, Guiltless, Beloved, Writhed Under The Crunch Of Bloodstained Boots, Under The Wheels Of Black Marias.

Rising From The Past, My Shadow Is Running In Silence To Meet Me.

I Seem To Myself, As In A Dream, Am Accidental Guest In This Dreadful Body.