Call me a sinner, Mock me maliciously: I was your insomnia, I was your grief.

As the future ripens in the past, so the past rots in the future -- a terrible festival of dead leaves.

I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed... here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.

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.

Now no one will listen to songs. The prophesied days have begun. Latest poem of mine, the world has lost its wonder, Don't break my heart, don't ring out.

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.