Skies of Novgorod – you are blue shatters of broken glass.
And the Sun had a beam haircut – and it bled on the grass.
June in Novgorod – you are a piece of a whizzbang of War,
you’re a blast of a bottle – which burst not with wine, but with woe.
And the Novgorod Sun – aren’t you Samson, who’s dazzled and blind?
Where’s the hope that it was just a dream, just a clouding of mind?
You just vanished like smoke, and your eyes disappeared - what for?
Thoughts – they flew to the Heaven, or maybe in just Nevermore.
Not your faces, but only the ocean of wounds can be seen.
There’s a face on the screen – but I cannot break through to the screen.
Just stop knocking on Heavenly door – or the glass will break!
And the Meaning will turn to a flake, to a small leather flake.
June in Novgorod, that very village and that very height –
here I’m facing this requiem for many dreams and for Light.
Here I’m losing my friends – just like Sampson had lost all his hair.
May I not stay in Novgorod’s fields, fields of green, evermair!