We come back from the field. Wind
thunders inverted bells buckets,
It distorts the bare twigs willows,
throwing earth on boulders.
Horses are fighting among shafts
black baskets bulging ribs,
pay grinning profile
a rusty harrow zubyu.
Wind Sucitu frozen sorrel,
puchit shawls and scarves, fumbles
linen in the hem of her old women, makes
their rag heads of cabbage.
Hark, coughing, looking dale,
like the hem of a pair of scissors,
women cut their boots to home,
tear on their trestle.
In the folds flash gum scissors.
Pupils watery vision smileys,
Windswept collective farmers in the eye,
as a storm blows the likeness of
in bare glass. Under harrows
furrows run away before the boulders.
Wind flinging over the waves
loose field swarm of birds.
This vision - the latest sign
the inner life, which is close
every ghost emerged outside,
if it is not completely flush out
Chime Kit, clang Telezhnyy,
upside down in the track wheel
overturned the world of flesh,
soaring of living in the clouds Starling.
The sky is dark; not the eyes, but rake
the first to see the raw roof,
looming on the crest
hill - rather, hill away.
Three miles will be even more than.
Panuet rain in the expanse of impoverished,
and stick to the tops of tarpaulin
brown lumps of native land.