I plaintive hand clench her crutch.
My friend - in love with the moon - it lives deceit.
Here - the third on the way. ABOUT, my dear friend, you l
The crumpled tin cap on eyes?
And - three of us wandered. Lying layers of dust.
All empty - here and there - under the relentless heat.
fences, how grave. The ditches preet rot.
All, all Pohrebeni in bezlyudy Damned.
stuc. Sadness in homes. The dead in their graves.
We whisper timidly on the door: "It is not dead - awake your loved one"…
but the old, in gaskets, frowning his low,
shouts: "Go away! Not oskorblyayte ashes!»
And then we wandered. And we see the cracks of buildings
Old game night shudders.
3 July 1904
