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.

The secret of secrets is inside me again.

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

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 liturgy After so many tormented days, So that the stormcloud over darkened Russia Might become a cloud of glorious rays.

The word dropped like a stone on my still living breast. Confess: I was prepared, am somehow ready for the test.

It was a time when only the dead smiled, happy in their peace.

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 today; I need to slaughter memory, Turn my living soul to stone Then teach myself to live again. . . But how. The hot summer rustles Like a carnival outside my window; I have long had this premonition Of a bright day and a deserted house.