We Aged A Hundred Years,

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.

The Celebrations Of Secret Nonmeetings Are Empty, Unspoken Conversations, Unuttered Words. Glances That Don't Intersect Don't Know Where To Come To Rest. And Only The Tears Rejoice Because They Can Flow And Flow. Sweetbrier Around Moscow, Alas! Somehow It Is Here ... And All This They Will Call Love Eternal.

We Aged A Hundred Years, And This Happened In A Single Hour: The Short Summer Had Already Died, The Body Of The Ploughed Plains Smoked.

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

I Have Long Had This Premonition Of A Bright Day And A Deserted House