Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You

Courage: Great Russian Word, Fit For The Songs Of Our Children's Children, Pure On Their Tongues, And Free.

No, Not Under The Vault Of Another Sky, Not Under The Shelter Of Other Wings. I Was With My People Then, There Where My People Were Doomed To Be.

And It Seemed To Me That There Were Fires Flying Till Dawn Without Number And I Never Found Out Things-those Strange Eyes Of His-what Colour? Everything Trembling And Singing And Were You My Enemy Or My Friend, Winter Was It Or Summer?

And This Tenderness Was Not Like That Which A Certain Poet At The Beginning Of The Century Called True And, For Some Reason, Quiet. No, Not At All— It Rang Out, Like The First Waterfall, It Crunched Like The Crust Of Bluish Ice And It Prayed With A Swanlike Voice, And It Broke Down Right Before Our Eyes.

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