Here the night is dead. My words are wild.
Flashing red ghost - Dawn.
The next morning comin up my cries,
As the white birds on the King's appointment.
In the dream and waking - indistinguishable
Fireworks and glow - and fear tishy…
My bezumyya - my heruvimы…
My Scary, My close - Black Monk…
Hand or the wind stirs the shreds?
Bony fingers - scraps of herbs…
Green eyes are burning at the crossroads -
There, the wind shakes the empty sleeve…
Closed one or many faces?
You know? You see! Clothing items!..
Until the morning - without the sun - comin my cries,
Like black birds, toward Christ!
9 January 1903