Sister of mine, my beautiful Natela,
the years had passed, but you are young and mellow -
so clear and light is fire of your eyes…
Please, take the native speech, the top crust of bread, helloed,
and these enchanting skies and clouds tailored,
and then divide all this for six of us.
There's the commandment of the far gone poet,
Whose song is not yet sung to end of all it.