Maximilian Voloshin.
              From «When Time Stops»
                                  1903.

During nights when in the fog light 
Stars in sky are weaving time, 
I am catching threads of minutes 
In eternal shawl of mine. 
I am catching these tight moments, 
While material is swirled 
From all things in forms and colors 
From all those in sounds of words...
         Translated by Natasha Levitan

                        Maximilian Voloshin.
     Odysseus in Cimmeria
    of the series "Cimmerian twilight"
                               1907.
For many days along the river Ocean
With open sail, towards the blurry East
To predetermined land we are in motion,
The singing waves get tired in the mist.

The eye of ending day is peeping crimson
And now far away we see the sight
Of sleeping land. And shading to horizon
The mountains and meagre woods beside.

To Persephona's altars we are going,
To silent sources, sheltered under groves
Of willows and acacias. Where roves
The gentle fern. And magic yew is growing.

Towards sunsets of gloomy days we head
To call the longing shadows of the dead.
            Translated by I. Larkov, 2006.

                       Maximilian Voloshin.
             Wormwood
        to Konstantin Fedorovich Bogaevsky
                                       1906.
              of the series"Cimmerian twilight"
My fire on the shore was getting low.
The liquid glass was petting sleepy sand.
And bitter wormwood soul, evaporating slow,
In misty darkness swayed above the land.

The broken granite wings are not in motion,
The winding spine is caught by stone grips.
Abandoned land, I see your stark exertion,
Old Mother's form without words on lips.

A child of nights, enticing all to know,
I am your eyes, wide open in the night
To shining ancient stars that orphaned long ago,
Extended calling rays to lone site.

I am your lips, enclosed by stone locking.
I'm tired too in chains of gloomy view.
I'm light of suns extinct, I'm frozen flame of talking,
A mute and wingless dear son of you.

Oh mother-slave! In silence, getting higher,
On bosome of your land I bend my knee...
And bitter wormwood breath, and bitter smoke of fire,
And bitter ocean – will remain in me.
                 Translated by I. Larkov, 2005.

                        Maximilian Voloshin.
           The evening light
               of the series "Cimmerian twilight"
                                            1907.
The evening light fed hills with bile, with ancient gold
Red tuffs of shaggy grass and climbing moss are blushing
Like locks of reddish skin. In fire shrubs are crushing
And water is like steel – to melt it's own mould.
The boulder heaps and blocks of barren cliffs
Lay in the hollows, sullen, arcane and dreary.
Those wings of dust, what kind of hints they carry?
There bare jaw grins, here heavy paw lifts.
There is a dubious hill... might be the bloated ribs.
Upon its bowed spine the wool of thyme creeps.
Who dwells in such a place, a titan or a beast?
Though freedom should be close, behind the water border,
The tired Ocean's chest sighs heavily. The breeze
Brings smell of rotten grass and sharp iodine's odour.