The Triumphs Of A Mysterious Non-meeting Are

Courage: Great Russian Word, Fit For The Songs Of Our Children's Children, Pure On Their Tongues, And Free.

We Aged A Hundred Years, And This Happened In A Single Hour: The Short Summer Had Already Died, The Body Of The Ploughed Plains Smoked.

Natural Thunder Heralds The Wetness Of Fresh Water High Clouds To Quench The Thirst Of Fields Gone Dry And Parched, A Messenger Of Blessed Rain, But This Was As Dry As Hell Must Be. My Distraught Perception Refused To Believe It, Because Of The Insane Suddenness With Which It Sounded, Swelled And Hit, And How Casually It Came To Murder My Child.

Song Falls Silent, Music Is Dumb, But The Air Burns With Their Fragrance, And White Winter, On Its Knees, Observes Everything With Reverent Attention.

Mary Magdalene Beat Her Breasts And Sobbed, His Dear Disciple, Stone-faced, Stared. His Mother Stood Apart. No Other Looked Into Her Secret Eyes. Nobody Dared.