Poems

The poem always was for me the form of expression of feelings. In two-three stanzas finds room much – the overflowing emotions asking on will of thought, impetuous passion. Not having possibility to give vent to this all on a paper, for a long time would descend suma from an overabundance of feelings. And so – anything, it was possible to consult. Improbably it would be desirable, not spending, certainly, not deserved analogies to repeat thereupon Sergey Yesenin's words: «as to other autobiographical data, - they in my verses».

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Freedom

The wind blows, a ring of branches,
Night conjures pleasure of days.
Calm down and excuse
With a star that rushes up.
Be free as the river,
Burn down with eyes of a cloud,
But I will whisper to you,
That freedom I do not want …

1993

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