In another life, I was a student of Silver Age Russian poetry, and loved no one more than Osip (and Nadezda) Mandelstam. It ended terribly for him. But his poetry outlasted the dictators.
“Even now stanzas rose easily, one after the other, and although he hadn’t written down any for a long time, and couldn’t write down his verse, the words still came without effort in a rhythm that was predetermined and, on every occasion, unusual.”