Here all the same, also, as before,
There seems futile to dream.
In the House, the road neproezzhey,
It is necessary to lock the shutters early.
Quiet my house empty and inhospitable,
He looks at the forest one window,
It someone was taken out of the loop
I then defended mertvogo.
Was he sad or secretly-oars,
Only death - a big celebration.
On the worn red plush seats
Occasionally flashed its shadow.
And cuckoo clock glad night,
All hear their clear conversation.
The crack I look: the thieves
Light the fire over the hill.
AND, prophesying near storm,
Low, low spreads smoke.
I'm not scared. I wear for good luck
Dark blue silk cord.