I sit before a fireplace, a smoke I start up,
Again one, with the head alone.
I recollect a life and again I overlook
The minutes destroyed on fire.

I'm so tired to struggle for freedom,
It is hard for me to change in itself something,
Dreams my, again sunk into water
Again it is necessary to collect on splinters.

Fire in consciousness of the poet flared,
Now ashes, lays, hardly warmly giving,
In fact I sand, a drop, a weak ray of light
Twinkle before a shadow of life.

Suppressed by power of system,
On a life I shall be eternally young...
Fire has died out and walls have turned black,
There were we are a poet and a smoke...