dead of night. Tsepenenye
Per sleepy laid down.
In vain thirst for inspiration, –
Do not beat a dead wing.
Around the deep darkness. I cry,
I called my family dreams,
Term random songs, –
But the songs are pale and sickly.
ABOUT, these serious moments
I see, I promise life,
That the beating wings of the future -
sorrow, - not give rise to songs.
20 August 1899