On the evening lake, I'm talking
High fret songs. The most subtle
tall pines, with sandy lugs,
Due to the graves and crypts, where the lights
Lamps and dusk smoky gray -
Lovers him I send my songs.
It can not see me - and it is not necessary.
As a woman tired, it
It stretched at the bottom and looking at the sky,
Tumanytsya, and watered the distance fog,
And robbed the whole sky sunset.
All perform the whim of his:
That narrow boat, caressing expanse,
And tonkostvolny system pinewood,
And on the far bank of the semaphore,
It reflects a green light,
Just at the very pink water.
To him crawling three-eyed snake
Its only by steel,
AND, before the whistle, lake brings
To me - its creeping, raucous noise.
I'm on the ledge. Me - grave
Dark granite. Below me -
Showing white in the twilight track.
AND, who looks at me from the bottom,
That scared: so I fixed,
In a wide hat, among the night graves
cross-armed, slim and love in the world.
