We Thought: We're Poor, We Have Nothing,

Give Me Bitter Years Of Sickness, Suffocation, Insomnia, Fever, Take My Child And My Lover, And My Mysterious Gift Of Song This I Pray At Your Liturgy After So Many Tormented Days, So That The Stormcloud Over Darkened Russia Might Become A Cloud Of Glorious Rays.

Not, Not Mine: It's Somebody Else's Wound; I Could Never Have Borne It. So Take The Thing That Happened, Hide It, Stick It In The Ground; Whisk The Lamps Away.

If You Were Music I Would Listen To You Ceaselessly And My Low Spirits Would Brighten Up.

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.

The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.