Return. Poem by Markelov Vladimir

Desert all in blossom in September - -
I‘ll not meet with marvel face to face.
I shall pass out, reeling from the bounties
Of burnt, dry, and penetrating faith.

The grey thoughtful dust of rain is clinging,
Snugglin’ up to my so fuming cage…
Rustling, as a feather-grass, and grieving
At the grave-yard - - silver steppe-n-stage.

I shall peer through autumn twilight frame,
Bit by bit remember, fate has willed …
Night is fading; and disturbing flame - - is
Tossing his black mane upon the hill.