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 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

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

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

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

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.