Life was slow, like an old fortune-teller,
Mysteriously whispering forgotten words.
Sigh of something I, something was sorry,
A sort of dream burning head.
Stopping at the crossroads, in the field,
I watched the jagged forest.
But even here,, under the yoke of an alien will,,
It seemed, grievous were the heavens.
And I remembered the hidden causes
Plenenyya dum, Captivated by the young forces.
And there, away - jagged peaks
Day off languidly gilded…
Spring, Spring! Tell, Why should I feel sorry for?
What a dream burning head?
Mysteriously, like an old fortune-teller,
Life whispers forgotten words.
16 Martha 1902
