So. Storm of that times ended far.
Muzhik started to plough a furrow (*Muzhik- a peasant in russian)
So wet and black. Again above
The wings of spring ring in the skies...
It's terrible, and easy, painful though;
Again the spring is whispering:"STAND UP!"...
And I am worshipping to her as to god
And kissing her invisible light gown...
And heart is beating quickly, fast,
And blood is getting young at that time,
When there appears through a fur-cloud
The reminiscence of my first love...
"Forget, forget about the awful world,
Wave up your wings and fly there to..."
No, I was not on the feast alone!
No, I shan't throw that ever, true!
14 febr 1909