And it seemed to me that there were fires Flying till dawn without number And I never found out things-those Strange eyes of his-what colour? Everything trembling and singing and Were you my enemy or my friend, Winter was it or summer?

If you were music I would listen to you ceaselessly And my low spirits would brighten up.

We learned not to meet anymore, We don't raise our eyes to one another, But we ourselves won't guarantee What could happen to us in an hour.

I know beginnings, I know endings too, and life-in-death, and something else I'd rather not recall just now.

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

Song falls silent, music is dumb, But the air burns with their fragrance, And white winter, on its knees, Observes everything with reverent attention.

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