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We are those who have seen the darkness and still believe in the light.

To resist is to preserve the future from the suffocating grip of the present.

Even in the deepest cell, the mind remains the last fortress of liberty.

Our defeat is not final, for the idea endures, more stubborn than stone.

The poem is the voice of the silenced, a testament to unbroken faith.

BORDER

The banks of the Ural,

the forests gradually turn silver, the river dozes on the sand,

a kite soars,

empty and much lower than a fighter jet,

confidently tracing dead loops on the golden fringe

of white clouds,

and at times seeking with its edges

the earthly abyss, which is much deeper than the heavenly abyss.

Here Europe ends, the border of this world,

for which the Atlantic is nothing more than an inland

sea, and Atlantis is a memory.

Seven in the morning; eight in the evening at the other end of that, greater

Europe,

in Frisco, San Francisco, on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, on the

border of a new, even greater war,

in Frisco, where the Industrial workers of the world live.

What kind of eyes, turned towards Asia, are looking at that Ocean,

sad, like my eyes, measuring this settled nothingness

of the beginning and end of continents

with the silence of another human face?

The steppe begins with virgin valleys,

with the purity of valleys, the fertility and boundlessness of valleys,

with the touching of the earth with one’s foot,

subject to the clouds.

The free attraction of spheres, space,

the run of red-brown stallions to the source of sources.

The conquered fields end,

sandy dunes rise,

the evil sun greedily consumes them,

Oh, thirst, eternity, flame and bones!

Vanity of vanities!