1.
Dogs quested and the presence missed a soul.
They scared away the rigor out of air.
All platforms perched on shoulders, lonely crows
with eyes of wolves and beak-ends to repair

the reasons found in the acutest grin.
When mercury is burnt three fingers wide
and water-elder blood chills on the scene
in wounds of winds I’m destined to reside.

2.
My raison d'etre makes echo-splinters
with human voices, their venenation,
name-called, neglected, defused by winters,
and walked alone-wise through crowded stations.

All echoes die soon, to-well-dropped pebbles.
I’m scarce now, painted o’er by December.
In trainful bosom my heart is trebled…
raised hell in temples… home to remember.

June 6, 2011

Дещо вільний переклад ось цієї штукенції:
http://stihi.ru/2010/10/20/7223