The real winter will yet to come,
and it will spark,
there will be heard these crackles under the feet.
Frosty mornings, so undesirable,
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 of something that is to be an obstacle
of snowdrifts, the hummock's permafrost,
of the impassable roads somewhere
and to be also the paralysis
on roads for our 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.