Yakov Petrovich Polonsky. (№ 303912)

If death was my own mother,
How sick, miserable child,
Her Breasts would fall asleep I
And, about the anger of the day pozabyla,
About myself I forgot.
But she is not a mother, she is an alien.
Rough revenge to those who dare to live,
To think and hard to love
And covers of eternity tearing,
Does not allow us to forget the past.