Where as in the long halls
Mad triples quiet years.
Where glimmer of wine by the glass, –
There arises dance.
Şurşa, ringing, viyas, fade,
Go for slow circles;
And the violin, this and thin,
Shall furious bows.
One comes away from the circle,
Stretched out his hand in the gloom;
Having chosen the appointment of another,
Flower drops on the floor.
Do not lay a flower: it sweetness
Oblivion of the past days,
And all violent joy
Impending death of your!..
There's everything - the game of fire and rock,
And only in the bitter hour of insults
Far from irrevocable
Sad angel proskvozilo…
19 July 1910
