Author of quotes: Vladimir Fedorov

Even the wind wipe away the tears
Birch on the side of the river
And in the doorways hiding the cold,
Blowing wound on his fists.
But gold is already open hive.
And vorohnulsya in the maelstrom of soma
Sparrow and the silver bullet
Pierces the chest of the confused winter.

For so long people know it
It is not necessary to ask the Magi:
What in the world is worse for a poet,
The better it is for his poetry.
Such is the poet's God's will,
To pay it with blood of the word,
To grow poetry of pure pain
In vain not dragging along like lace.
So it did not spoil dreams:
To the stars by throwing down.
And that dot, like tears,
Fast flashes of pages.

Give me breadth of Rozdol'ne
I others will not be,
I can not will free
Den to exchange.
And although I know very well:
Waiting for my last feast,
But with the snow crushes I
Under him miserable world.

I nasalsa over the centuries,
I'm tired of miserable dreams:
Give me hard times
With the years!

Trembling from Blizzard Pereguda
My North, coiled in a circle:
Wherever I go from here
Either way - to the South
Frozen Shakespeare and Neruda,
Put hands in the ashes:
Wherever I go from here
Any road - to heat.

She went to the bottom, like Atlantis
In the green and the yellow sea.
And cries in vain the Russian Isida,
Bottomless hovering over the grass.
In the depths of the herbs past is buried,
And somewhere, on a indifferent day,
It is powerless to memory calls
On inaccessible to people depth.