жорстоко так з твого боку...Невже ти, невже я знову помилилась?
In dead flowers
Soul trod through the dead meadows
Of dancing on whithering flowers,
Weary were torments of spririts,
Distorted in move of slow waltz,
Terrifying, magnificent they looked,
And I wanted to dance in their circle
To gather my soul with the cloud
Hanging upon watered earth.
Leave the hopes for the future,
Forget what happened and past,
Pour into one great moan
Which is to long for too many years.
The eight moons will wrap us with glow,
Enlighting the ways lead so far,
We'll tear off from rotting flowers,
Rending the thin trembling thread,
Which welds all of the spirits,
Letting to fly away not.
To fly over the city in slumber
Filling the streets with deep sighs
And in morning to disappear in mist
Not to leave any of us
But a gentle wind's breath,
But a gentle wind's breath...