A Loss, But Who Still

A Land Not Mine, Still Forever Memorable, The Waters Of Its Ocean Chill And Fresh. Sand On The Bottom Whiter Than Chalk, And The Air Drunk, Like Wine, Late Sun Lays Bare The Rosy Limbs Of The Pinetrees. Sunset In The Ethereal Waves: I Cannot Tell If The Day Is Ending, Or The World, Or If The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

Forgive Me, That I Manage Badly, Manage Badly But Live Gloriously, That I Leave Traces Of Myself In My Songs, That I Appeared To You In Waking Dreams.

A Loss, But Who Still Mourns The Breath Of One Woman, Or Laments One Wife? Though My Heart Never Can Forget, How, For One Look, She Gave Up Her Life.

... He Is Rewarded With A Form Of Eternal Childhood, With The Bounty And Vigilance Of The Stars, The Whole World Was His Inheritance And He Shared It With Everyone.

In The Terrible Years Of The Yezhov Terror I Spent Seventeen Months Waiting In Line Outside The Prison In Leningrad. One Day Somebody In The Crowd Identified Me . . . And Asked Me In A Whisper . . . "can You Describe This?" And I Said: "i Can."