It's September, evening,
Twenty-first,
I'm going home to meet you
Wind twilight out of spite.
The smell of the city, asphalt
Stand aside,
And sparkles like smalt,
All the landscape in silence.
Reservoirs are very quiet,
Only the hum of the bridge is heard,
The ripples and the wind Rushing famously,
And around only beauty:
All the green plains,
And huts and houses,
Somewhere the smell of wood,
The sound of the accordion, list of writing,
All familiar, native,
With sadness, dust of old,
And in the pre-twilight heat
They are all animated…
21.09.16