All That I Am Hangs By A

All That I Am Hangs By A Thread Tonight

Give Me Bitter Years Of Sickness, Suffocation, Insomnia, Fever, Take My Child And My Lover, And My Mysterious Gift Of Song This I Pray At Your Liturgy After So Many Tormented Days, So That The Stormcloud Over Darkened Russia Might Become A Cloud Of Glorious Rays.

If You Were Music I Would Listen To You Ceaselessly And My Low Spirits Would Brighten Up.

Poems Are My Link With The Times, With The New Life Of My People.

Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful And Bitter.