You are so light, as a snow innocent.
You are so white, as the distant church.
That night is not entrusted now
And all the evenings - even more.
With soul, long ago tired,
I wish not to believe to you,
But late may be for the alien passer-by,
I starve to knock your chamber-room.
For that disastrous torment's layer
Could you forgive me, oh my dear,
And stretch your hands to a betrayer,
And grant me with a new spring feeling.
8.Nov.1908