At the best god's creature
I've caught the scorn power.
I hit her with a stick.
She hastened to put on her coat. On leaving.
And gone. And glanced back
At my bluish windows in fear.
And she is gone. Into bluish windows
There is flowing the rainy evening,
And further, behind the bad weather,
There is burning a dawn's frindge.
And distant, wet valleys
And close, turbulent happiness!
I'm standing and heeding
To that sounds of voilins singing.
They are singing the wild songs
About the freedom I'd got!
About the ever better fate,
Which the mean passion replaced!
13 march 1910
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem