Only in Russia poetry is respected - it gets people killed.

Where to start? Everything cracks and shakes, The air trembles with similes, No one world's better than another; the earth moans with metaphors.

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.

A raznochinets needs no memory—it is enough for him to tell of the books he has read, and his biography is done.

Perhaps my whisper was already born before my lips.

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

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