of this night, dreamt
of the summer, and haystacks.
were from the previous year.
it smelt
as never before
more then.
he lay on his back now,
he recalled the gold
of the nature.
waking up
brought about.
the sad morning,
the griping wife
and the solitude.
it is already only
a predictable end,
without chances
to other.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem