The hope a mooncalf follows
is sacrifice for slaughter,
and yet the wings of swallows
still skip across the water. 

The Official Website of the Leading Formalist Poet 

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The Calm of the Sea

Upon the height of Tarkankut The pennant at the crow’s

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The Dream

High noon in Dagestan, I lay marooned In blistering heat,

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December 1942

How resounding is the winter squall. Hole-riddled the loam walls

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The Birch

  The birch beneath My windowsill Stands like a wreath

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© by Leo Yankevich
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