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In a foggy shroud of dreams
In a precious counterpane
Is the ancient spirit grey Ural.
Lulled beautiful cruel gods
Are in these mountains.
Among moss - grown blocks
Are cries of pain and triumph
Will be remained in rock forever.
Only sticky blood won't leave sign,
In a deep of gems is one's hot now.
To a look for the last time
At severe dread low sky,
Entrust stone with soul.
To wander in cold hall,
To roam in gloomy ice
Among illusory emerald's fire.

Under mountain in hall is my malachite throne,
And chains of heavy copper dre.
Under wood curtain are the grave rest,
Autumn fire, mournful gloom at the trunks.

Not cosy, quet, tired feast of souls
Who come out from mossy rotten halls.
Decaying glare of faded eyes,
Chilly rippling shadows,
The rustle of foliage is voice.
Their fate is roaming to come back into thicket,
I leave a soul's piece in forest for the killed.
In the purple woods is my pine throne,
And wings of clear pure miss.
I won't reach swampy singing meadows,
I won't be crawned with the wreath
Of radiant flowers and shining grass.

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