When exile sparks like a storm

ends the open plain  of my calmness

when sadness like a crow,

in front of the door of my room,

stretches its wings and hovers:

I pick the  frozen-winged sparrow

of my grief,

I go, I go,

till i find a child

from they rays of his eyes

I remind the sparrow of grief how to fly.

Yet  my dear!

I have  often seen with my eyes

when children

grieve in this city

they come like little ducks

and take bath in the lake of your eyes.

 

Moscow 27/12/1975