Not, Not Mine: It's Somebody Else's Wound;

During The Terrible Years Of The Yekhov Terror I Spent Seventeen Months In The Prison Queues In Leningrad. One Day Someone ‘identified’ Me. Then A Woman With Lips Blue With Cold Who Was Standing Behind Me, And Of Course Had Never Heard Of My Name, Came Out Of The Numbness Which Affected Us All And Whispered In My Ear—(we All Spoke In Whispers There): ‘could You Describe This?’ I Said, ‘i Can!’ Then Something Resembling A Smile Slipped Over What Had Once Been Her Face.

The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

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

Rising From The Past, My Shadow Is Running In Silence To Meet Me.

That Was When The Ones Who Smiled Were The Dead, Glad To Be At Rest.