The real winter will yet to come,
and it will spark,
there will be heard these crackles under the feet.
Frosty mornings, inopportune ones,
in the ice glide
they will fight with shoes,
the windows will get white,
will fall of snowflakes,
few will look into the snow in the mountains' visage.
And why dream
about something that is to be an obstacle
of snowdrifts, the hummock's permafrost,
of the impassable roads somewhere
and to be the paralysis
of roads of these billions?
And why to want here,
what is not there, to speed fate jokes up
What eyes can't see, in some proverb,
always tempts us
always attracts us