blackened, twisted log bridge,
And there are mugs in human growth,
And nettle dense forest sing,
That will not work on them, not blesnet hair.
Evenings on the lake heard a sigh,
And on the walls raspolzsya gnarled moss.
I met there
Twenty-one.
Sweet mouth was
Black sultry honey.
The branches tore me
Dress white silk,
On Gnarlpine
Nightingale does not Molk.
A conditional cry
Come out of the hole,
Like a wild devil,
A sweeter sister.
A mountain run,
Swim across the river,
So that then
I will not say: leave.
