there are times, there are days, when
Wind burst in the heart of the snow,
And do not save any tender voice,
Neither the serene hour of labor…
Frightened and wild birds
you fly, but the dawn - in the blood…
Tosca, passion, ohnevytsey
Love is madness…
Polserdtsa - storm cloud,
Under it - all wilderness, all muteness,
And this - the former, Easy -
is another, supposedly not so…
Dark, and funny, and stuffy,
AND, breathless, not breathing,
Already around the other obedient
Hitherto proud soul!
22 November 1913
