In the black boughs of the trees naked
Yellow winter sunset outside.
(By the scaffold sentenced to death
This will lead to the sunset.)
Red damask faded sofas,
Dusty curtains brush…
In this room, to the clinking of glasses,
Kupchik, Schuler, student, the officer…
These bare figures magazine
Not touching human hand…
And the hand of the scoundrel pressed
This dirty doorbell…
Chu! On soft carpets rang
spurs, laugh, muffled doors…
Is this house - the house really?
Is it so fated between people?
Unless I am glad today's meeting?
What you face is white, if boards?
What's in your bare shoulders
Beats huge cold sunset?
Only lips with gore
The icon of your gold
(Is it we called love?)
Refracted mad dash…
The yellow, winter, vast sunset
drowned (so richly!) bed…
Another closely breathe from embracing,
But you svischesh again and again…
He was not cheerful - your whistle sepulchral…
Chu! Again - muttering spurs…
like snakes, severe, fed and dusty,
Zephyr with your chairs crawling on the carpet…
you dare! So even be fearless!
I - not her husband, not your fiance, not a friend!
So pierces the, my angel yesterday,
In the heart - acute French heel!
6 December 1911
