How the miracle of our meeting Shone there and sang, I didn't want to return From there to anywhere. Happiness instead of duty Was bitter delight to me. Not obliged to speak to anyone, I spoke for a long while. Let passions stifle lovers, Demanding answers, We, my dear, are only souls At the limits of the world.

I am in the middle of it: chaos and poetry; poetry and love and again, complete chaos. Pain, disorder, occasional clarity; and at the bottom of it all: only love; poetry. Sheer enchantment, fear, humiliation. It all comes with love

Let whoever wants to, relax in the south, And bask in the garden of paradise. Here is the essence of north—and it's autumn I've chosen as this year's friend.

That was when the ones who smiled Were the dead, glad to be at rest.

The triumphs of a mysterious non-meeting are desolate ones; unspoken phrases, silent words.

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

It is unbearably painful for the soul to love silently.