Your thunderstorm me rushing off
And knocked me.
And he stood over me quietly
Xin dying day.
I'm on the ground, storm smyatыy
And lying overturned.
And I hear the distant rumble,
And I see the rainbow Mezhuyev.
I will ascend on it, of seven colors
And unsullied path -
With a smile and a quiet Privetnoye
Look into the eyes of your storm.
November 1906
