You will hear thunder and remember me, And think: she wanted storms. The rim Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson, And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem too insignificant for our concern? Yet in my heart I never will deny her, Who suffered death because she chose to turn.

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.

I go forth to seek To seek and claim the lovely magic garden Where grasses softly sigh and Muses speak.

Courage: Great Russian word, fit for the songs of our children's children, pure on their tongues, and free.

All that I am hangs by a thread tonight

This Cruel Age has deflected me.