Sometimes come midnight
In the extreme pole, at the edge of the dead.
We do not believe. not waiting. just
Not melt snow, May not fork.
We do not believe. And the voice of the young
We sang and wept spring,
As if the wind touched the strings
There, in unfamiliar heights,
As if winter retreat,
And the storm firmament severed,
And the strings weep seraphim,
Spilling over the world wing…
But it was quiet in our crypt,
And the pole - in the cool silver.
Left. All glories -
Here are just a: the wings of the dawn.
That it wept? that fought?
What she expected of us?
Do not know. Died vernal voice,
Extinguished stars blue eyes.
Yes, blind people, number tuchy…
And where we manage celebrations?
Lay down the stone is white-combustible,
It is growing at the feet crybaby-grass…
So sleep, exhausted glory,
love, life, slander…
Now you're with her - with the majestic,
With your pipe dream.
And we - we're on this funeral feast?
What we know, what help?
Let them at least clearer life death,
Though funeral torch - the night…
Let him at least in the sky - Vera us.
Look through the clouds: there it is -
wind spread a banner,
Promised spring.
February 1910
