No one will say: January fool.
My bow low, my face strict.
Do not call me abbot
At night on a strict threshold.
I'm sad brothers - brother approximate,
And a black cassock am,
When the morning, gait faithful
Sour cream with pale grass dew.
AND, Fits all icons,
How rigorous and humble brother,
I bow works for bow,
And for ritual ceremonies.
And who will understand, and who knoweth,
What did you say to me: silent…
The wax melts the soul of the blessed
On ravine candle flame…
That no prayer is not necessary,
When you walk along the river
Behind the monastery wall
In his monastic scarf.
That's - my flowery hops
Insanely overwhelmed you,
And I lost by week
My criminal Beauty.
6 November 1907
