Those, who were unable to hold theirselves
On the grey granit slopes well -
Down fell.... Where from the happiness
No any 'horns' or 'feet' remained...
The very flight - into the Nowhere - was short...
It is covered with, hided with the pure dark
There - in the depth of the infinite gorge,
Where the Time is rotating the wheels fast
Of the Reflection and Transformation
In order to throw to the world of Motion then
Those, who fell from the rockes to precipice...
Who had a goal - the victory's happiness...
In russian
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem