1967

Sister of mine, my beautiful Natela,
the years had passed, but you are young and mellow -
so clear and light is fire of your eyes…
Please, take the native speech, the top crust of bread, helloed,
and these enchanting skies and clouds tailored,
and then divide all this for six of us.

There's the commandment of the far gone poet,
Whose song is not yet sung to end of all it.
My dear sister, all before us lay!
Let jealous ones are still in busy fever,
Galaktion will come here back, whenever:
he just a little postponed on his way.

Among the ocean of the words, the useless -
which are not charming, but safe for their users -
the poet's words, like gorgeous islands, thrive.
The feather hurries like before storms, fierce,
His eyes are misty with the sacred tears:
The poets cry - the nation is alive.