There are quiet children. Nap on the shoulder
In affectionate mother and their sweet day.
Their weak handles do not rush to the candle, —
They do not play with fire.
Have children - as sparks: it is akin to the flame.
In vain they are taught: "It burns, do not touch!»
they are willful (because they spark!)
And feel free to grab the fire.
There are strange children: in their audacity and fear.
Cross themselves slowly Autumn,
fit, do not dare, pale in tears
And tears run from fire.
My dear! Was your judgment too sloppy:
"Fire was afraid - so Gibney in the mist!»
Your accusations gnaw my heart
And the soul nor inclined to the ground.
There are strange children: their fears
They die in foggy days.
They do not have salvation. Think about it
And do not blame me too!
You're the soul for a long time I bent to the ground ... -
My dear, I was so merciless thy judgment! —
Still, I'm your heart - and in the mist
"In just a few minutes of light!»