I remembered an old fairy tale,
Listen, friend, me.
Storyteller and a good old
I sat quietly by the fire.
Rain knocked on the window,
The wind howled in the chimney.
"Poor is now homeless!» –
Said good storyteller.
The knock at the door lightly,
Storyteller door opened,
Wind rushed cold,
Rain threshold doused…
The boy is on the verge
pathetic, chilled, leg,
Wet behind the quiver,
Bow with a taut bowstring.
AND, seated on his knees,
Warm the poor thing the old man.
Quietly trusting boy
To the old heart clung.
"What's your toy?» –
"They gave me a mother". –
"Right, You archery
Nice to know how to start?»
Ringing in response laughed
A boy on the floor and jumped.
"That's how I can!" - he said
And I pulled the bowstring…
At the heart of it was,
Old heart in the blood…
As unexpectedly wound
Sharp arrows of love!
Old man, terpene
serious illness,
And you, my friend,
Terpenes and sleep,
Sleep, sleeps,
Will never forget
the old man,
Provspominaesh you years,
You Provspominaesh century,
And amid the growing darkness
you recall
And it is,
All, what happened,
What lured,
that bloomed,
that passed, –
All, everything.
October 1913
