The bow sang. And the cloud of stuffy
Above us rose. and nightingale
we dreamed. And become obedient
I slid into the arms of my…
Not the nightingale - the violin sang,
When will broken strings,
Around sobbing and ringing,
In vernal grove, silence…
As there, in sobbing sounds
Entered mayskaya storm…
Fearful approached hands,
And his eyes burned smezhennye…
14 May 1914
