The sky, churned up and disheveled,
Drops its junk on the forests of pine.
The dormant moon, from baldness level,
With flames of grayish blue will shine.
The wind, with screeching, screaming sounds,
Carries rabbles of clouds in a sweep.
In response — in the air that keeps swirling around
Floats the urge to recline and to sleep.
Перекладач: Andriy M. Freishyn-Chirovsky
Оригінал: Осінній дисонанс