Snow hay zaporoshil
through the cracks in the ceiling.
I Kicked hay
and I met with moth.
Fotolog, Fotolog,
himself saved from death,
zabravshisy hay.
Survived, wintered.
I choose and looks,
as a "bat" chadit,
how brightly lit.
log wall.
Bringing it to face,
I see its pollen
clearer, than fire,
than his own hand.
Among the evening haze
we're all alone.
And my fingers are warm,
as the July Days.
1965
