the bliss. Only the wind and rain, as the social masses, are having fun,
don’t allow either to fall asleep or to wake up surrounded by autumn heart and faith.
Let go out of the circle of hopeless victories, let the soul of night a freedom.
I am not able to bear a burden of meetings in this glorious
wilderness along the alley of my silence. I’m going to loneliness, immersed
into the royal comfort of the unearthly inheritance. A drop of blood,
whose name is a minute, is flowing like the boundless sea, and the frozen
waves of premonitions to the shores of the cities, where human hopes get into the flock,
don’t run, and yesterday childhood triumphs on the edges of these foam rocks,
a timid dream of our little stove, like the apple blossom at the battle of coals.
In this cage of confessions the burnt truth comes back to life like a half ghostly