Grace becomes the face, but truth belongs to God—
tormented by that thought, I lay myself bare;
I’ll open softly the door I’ve long outlawed,
and nail my words between the lines somewhere.
For laboured rhymes — autumnal verse —
in hours when distant roads would please,
without regret, or sorrow’s curse,
I bid the shrinking Volga peace.
What sort of city dares call itself my fate,
on the left bank of life’s eternal sins,
where soggy optimism’s served on a plate,
with drafts of wandering hope within?
A rusted nail on an abandoned fence,
it hanged itself to the drain’s thin cry,
rushing through steppe and brittle sense,
to catch a fallen star’s reply.
I longed to cheat the dull routine,
to spare my soul from growing small;
to cross myself in mountain sheen,
and spread my wings above it all—
before the dusty hum of roads
became my only ritual call.