At the shore of the still where iron boot thunder
Never clouds the view, smudges not the wayside
He who knows the leave is no more than for one day
Serves his time staring into the distance red-eyed
To the outer world where feather heads bow
To the spotter's cross-hair bisecting the slough.
Battleground the night shower had ironed low
He who ran, printed in, who accustomed, cut through.
And the toll will proclaim and the speakers announce
Farming experts and calendar founders land,
But the skyline is lost far away in dust clouds
And the one in behind never stops to attend.
And the spotter will narrow his accurate pupil
To the homely trill of his workaday scoff.
Face-approaching earth on its rise from the stupor
Pulls the stirrup and calls its demanding, "Get off."
At the post, as the clock hands were sinking in graystone,
The beyond sending clearer, sharper refrains,
We were raising our wolven heads howling, "Hasten!"
All is well, and the night has been bound in chains.
Day is watching from skylawns, a vigilant hound,
Bow down and stretch; feather heads lying meek.
Ear tight to the ground, "Is it quiet around?"
"All is quiet, just roots of the perished grass speak."
Ear tight to the ground, "Is it quiet around?"
"All is quiet, just roots of the perished grass speak."
Original: www.mumidol.ru/gorod/adler.htm#5