The hour.
The hour of violet.
Who's there above the violet
twilight flying?
It's gnawing its flesh
and hits its shadow in the rocks.
It's you, isn't it?
The last child of sorrow.
The lost breath of God.
The fear of the strong
of himself?
It's burning - the silver
of desperate Vrubel.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem