Just before days advance of the cold snowy winter
Autumn's early sunset colors skyline in crimson.
I have dreams of the one, whom I loved in the past,
I am hearing the music, under which we have danced.  

I am dreaming about the youth of the yore,
I have dreams of first love, I am dreaming of her.
I have dreams of first kiss, and forgotten sweet pain,
Dejavu resurrecting comes to heart back again.

Fly to South wild birds to escape winter's terror,
Cleaving sky by flock's wedge, as the tip of an arrow,
And I follow the birds, flying back to my youth,
Reuniting with Spring, leaving realm of dark truth.

I'm soaring up to bare simplicity,
False art's complexity discarding use.
Let feelings chain, undressed explicitly,
Not scare poetry inspiring muse.

Poems, like flowers, often grow out of mud.
But trample them no one can into dirt in vain,
When Poet's words rhyme fastened chain
Weaves fabric strongly tied with reader's heart.

For each of us the fate has meted out length of living,
And, inevitably, at certain day and hour unforgiving,
The Messenger of Death, Finality's Ambassador,
- The man, all dressed in black, appears at the door,
Reminding that approaches end of life's short play,  
And ordering to write a requiem without a delay.

First Love, which lives in each of two young lovers trembling heart,
Being glorified by Shakespear's tragic story of the hope and pain.
Its essence is immortal, it blooms like rose: again, again, again,
Its burning thrill shines in the world, by sin and evil teared apart.

Two bodies's gentle ardent languor merge, filled with elation
Turns satisfaction of the carnal instinct's *******
Into the sacred hymn of the eternal nature's cycle regeneration,
And into solemn ritual of celebrating life's rebirth.

As long as rises sun, heralding coming of the new day's light,
As long as moon brings spirit into the shadow pit of bottomless dark night,
- Oh earthly prose, I beg, please don't overthrow sentiment,
Performed by copulating naked souls Love's holy sacrament.

I do love you, but not for looks of beauty.
You don't shine with womanly appearance traits.
I love performance of your storyteller duty,
With such entrancing art, that deeply penetrates.

In poetry you are both Messalina and Solveig, both nymphomaniac and nun,
You can be angel of the kind caress, or  bully, thought provoking hooligan.
Sometimes you are a child, another times - soothsayer, your pride is mixed with gust of true remorse,
Sometimes you are black stork and witch, sometimes you are the evil's victim innocent white rose.

If you deny me of devotion to your art three times,
And with anathema my feelings cruelly betray,
I don't want to live to sobering sad day
When i forget the poisoned spoil of your enchanting rhymes.

Life only once we are destîned to live.
Love, big as life, in it just may not happen.
But poet dwells in magic country, made of dreams,
Where he can find the reason to be happy.