The spring day passed without purpose
At the dirty and dark window:
Behind the wall was singing, boresome,
My wife - bird in captivity.
Without haste I brought together
My reminiscences, my works;
And all became perfectly clear:
Life's rustled by, passed over.
Yes, my thoughts, disputes will return,
But they will be such gloomy, boring;
What's then a need to down curtains?
The soul's fire - all is gone.
march 1909