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.

I am not one of those who left the land to the mercy of its enemies. Their flattery leaves me cold, my songs are not for them to praise.

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

Not, not mine: it's somebody else's wound; I could never have borne it. So take the thing that happened, hide it, stick it in the ground; whisk the lamps away.

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

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

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.