And I am sitting in a swamp.
Over marsh tsvetet,
not aging, not knowing treason,
My purple flower,
What I call - Night Violet.
Over the marsh was my town,
That same evening, the same dawn.
AND, probably, My friend, reeling,
Not once came home
And swearing, I cursed,
And dead sleep sleep.
But centuries have passed,
And to think I thought the centuries.
I'm at the very ends of the earth,
Lonely and wise, like children.
Just quietly the dying body of,
The same world I was met by a painful.
But Night Violet blooms,
And its bright purple flower.
And in the green mist caressing
I hear the waves in a circular motion,
And big ships approximation,
If news of a new land.
So cherished spinning wheel spinning
Dream alive and instant,
What unexpected joy comes
And abide it perfect.
And Night Violet blooms.
1905-1906
