They’re void – the celebrations Of these polled non-dates, The wordless conversations, The soundless words’ sets. The never crossing glances Are flying courses, wrong, And just the tears are freightless – They can flow for long. And Moscow’s wild-roses Are of the same mixed stuff… And later they’ll call all this “The never-dying love.” Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October 9, 2004
Corrected May-June 2008