By Georgiy Ivanov
Russia is luminous. Russia is bliss.
Or maybe Russia doesn’t exist.
And over Neva twilights never burned,
And Pushkin never perished on the snow.
And there is neither Petersburg nor Kremlin;
But only snows and snows and plains and plains...
Just snows and snows... But how the night is long,
And never would melt down this endless snow.
For Russia is grave silence. It is dust.
Or maybe it is fear and nothing but.
A rope, a bullet, icy darkness, and
A music that can make one lose their head.
The rope, the bullet, and the penal dawn
Above what bears no worldly names at all.