For a new, clean and ringing line
I go, and the dawn blooms maroon.
On the snow featherbeds of the fields near Moscow
December lay down gray-haired
I accept his mirages and quirks,
And fragile castles in the mist of the milky,
And it seems that eternity has descended to earth,
And she commanded to live beautifully and forever.
A gang of crows takes off by companies,
Forests burning with a cold croak,
And the line is born irrevocably,
And breathes greedily and hotly in the cold.