Perhaps the whisper was born before lips, And the leaves in treelessness circled and flew, And those, to whom we impart our experience as bliss, Acquire their forms before we do

And I walk out of space Into an overgrown garden of values, And tear up seeming stability And self-comprehension of causes. And your, infinity, textbook I read by myself, without people - Leafless, savage medical book, A problem book of gigantic radicals.

My turn shall also come: I sense the spreading of a wing.

Poetry is the plough that turns up time in such a way that the abyssal strata of time, its black earth, appear on the surface.

Perhaps my whisper was already born before my lips.

I love my poor earth because I have seen no other.

I was stopped in the dense Soviet wood by bandits who called themselves my judges.