I Seem To Myself, As In A

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.

But Fear And The Muse In Turn Guard The Place Where The Banished Poet Has Gone And The Night That Comes With Quickened Pace Is Ignorant Of Dawn.

Courage: Great Russian Word, Fit For The Songs Of Our Children's Children, Pure On Their Tongues, And Free.

How The Miracle Of Our Meeting Shone There And Sang, I Didn't Want To Return From There To Anywhere. Happiness Instead Of Duty Was Bitter Delight To Me. Not Obliged To Speak To Anyone, I Spoke For A Long While. Let Passions Stifle Lovers, Demanding Answers, We, My Dear, Are Only Souls At The Limits Of The World.

As The Future Ripens In The Past, So The Past Rots In The Future -- A Terrible Festival Of Dead Leaves.