No one will be in the house
Except twilight. One
Winter day in a through opening
Undrawn curtains.

Only white wet clods
A quick glimpse of moss,
Only rooftops, snow, and apart from
Roofs and snow, no one.

And again draw frost,
And wrap me up again
last year's gloom
And the affairs of winter are different.

And again prick until now
Unresolved guilt
And the window on the cross
Squeeze wood hunger.

But suddenly on the curtain
The intrusion will tremble,
Silence measuring with steps.
You, like the future, will enter.

You will appear from the door
In something white, without quirks,
In something, really from those matters,
From which flakes are sewn.

__________
Sergey Nikitin (Author)
translator Slava P ©