The monk walked and carried the holy signs.
On a way, yellowing in the fields,
Sparked fiery poppies,
Reflected in the cloudy eyes of.
He found out, what soul burned,
I looked at the fading heights.
there dream, the wind whispered:
"servant, Get up to the sky.
Nice, nice, eternal hope
We cherish the midst of heaven…»
He left the dark clothes,
caught fire, vosparil, disappeared.
And for him - growing rebellion signs,
Red tidings of eternal fire
Flared stout poppies,
Wins the day the sun.
1 August 1902