The winter has come

Melancholy has brought.

White are covered,

My nostrils.

Not hunting is more than anything.

The death all is closer,

And to die not hunting.

The pain all is more,

And to cure it is impossible.

The Earth all is farther,

And light is already brighter.

As though I fly,

But wings are not present.

It I understand,

Also I fall on the ground.

In sweat cold I wake up,

On the sides I look back.

Also I fall asleep

А если перевести

Будет там про зиму, про тоску, про белый и ещё сон