The spring day passed without purpose
At the dirty and dark window: 
Behind the wall was singing, boresome, 
My wife - bird in captivity.
Without haste I brought together
My reminiscences, my works; 
And all became perfectly clear: 
Life's rustled by, passed over. 
Yes, my thoughts, disputes will return, 
But they will be such gloomy, boring; 
What's then a need to down curtains? 
The soul's fire - all is gone.
march 1909                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    