Where to start? Everything cracks and shakes, The air trembles with similes, No one world's better than another; the earth moans with metaphors.
I was stopped in the dense Soviet wood by bandits who called themselves my judges.
Perhaps my whisper was already born before my lips.
A raznochinets needs no memory—it is enough for him to tell of the books he has read, and his biography is done.
Only in Russia poetry is respected - it gets people killed.
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