Viburnum red one
standing in a tattered sheepskin coat
from the ice sheet.
Above it flies a witch in a mortar.
Leaning on the counter,
on a mortar, arched, and here
he throws dead jackdaws down the chimney
and clogs the chimney.
On the slopes of the roof go navny,
in the snow printing footprints,
and only the yellow circle lamp
hesitates in the dark.
And the witch, the furry mouth,
grimacing, he shouts to you: "Wait!"
That's how you go out for water
and you will meet death.
Step into the bright cone of light
undaunted, as a Homa,
in fulfillment of the vow
pray - and & nbsp; the darkness will be wasted
black-winged devils.
Already in the morning you can see the bath,
haystacks on the field. Wind from the roofs
dry and thin snow blows away
and builds walls and pillars,
and sweeps, sweeps
all the things you were afraid of.
On the glass lace will come,
frost will strike, ice will rise,
and under the steel runners
the river will suddenly sing.