You Will Hear Thunder And Remember Me,

Call Me A Sinner, Mock Me Maliciously: I Was Your Insomnia, I Was Your Grief.

Rising From The Past, My Shadow Is Running In Silence To Meet Me.

The Stars Of Death Stood Over Us. And Russia, Guiltless, Beloved, Writhed Under The Crunch Of Bloodstained Boots, Under The Wheels Of Black Marias.

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.