Well, What? Weak hands are wearily twisted,
And eternity she gazed into his eyes extinguished,
And flour subsided. And even if I had high flour, –
What needs? - I see a sad procession of the night.
After the sun, put a circle beating, zakatilosʹ.
Open my books: it says all, it be done.
Yes, I was a prophet, until the heart praying,
Praying and singing you, But you - not the queen.
I'm not the king: You dream of power is not shared.
A slave I will not: you did not want to land power.
Here is a new burden: until you open the tomb
raw arms, - plod without important cause.
But I - man. AND, The fall of his recognizing,
Their anxiety, I have not humbled: it stronger.
That zeal for the house, Anxiety heart eatables,
repeats relentlessly: What are you doing, do quickly.
21 February 1914
