The hum of spring will not else loosen
My verses of the clenched words,
I've loved steel grating and diffusion,
Of sunk in cacophony worlds.

In the gaping of wide-open vowels
My breath is easy, fresh and free.
In throngs of consonants it grows -
The noise of piled-up ice, for me.

I'm glad when from the tinny clouds
A fork-like arrow strikes here;
The shrill whine of a saw around
Is all that I like else to hear.

And in this life they're twice as dear
To me than harmony and fine -
The cold sweat of the deathly fear,
The tremor over skin of mine,

Or dreams in which I, once entire,
Explode and fly like a dirt…
Like mud that's spattered by a tire,
To spheres of the alien worlds.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, December, 2000