I live in deep peace.
Roy afternoon grave roots.
But on a foggy night - two of us.
I together with another at night.
Obychayny - at the entrance to the passage,
Where is my image flicker.
Lob closed shadows plants.
Slightly fade in the shadow of the eye.
From the angle of silvered armor,
Emitting plaintive creaking.
In the distant rooms - I speak winged
Those, with whom I lived, and who died.
Alone - at the end of a string -
I - the last muscle land.
Do not open the mouth dark-faced,
if waiting, all went,
Crushing funeral sounds
Uniformly terrible hours,
He will raise serious hand,
that hang, as the centuries loop.
Creak whether heavy armor?
Or the grave's, my fear, empty?
Or he vdunet sound hoarse
In the Horn of stinking mouth?
Or I, a month horned,
Just pathetic dream silver,
That had a long road to
All powerless to meet the dawn?
15 June 1904
