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

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.

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.

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

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

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