Last purple waning,
Last wind sighed deeply,
We opened up the clouds, month rose,
Song sounded from afar.
All hopes of early years
Risen brighter and more wonderful,
But sorrow is complete in response
Soul, tormented song.
The old god flashed in the distance,
And over the sinister summer lightning
Flew south Cranes
Drawling cry stanitsa.
4 August 1900
