The winged coalmouse struck the window;
The clock had stopped, the walls turned mutely gray.
And o’er the blue-gray grief of winter,
There drooped the clouds, like bales of hay.
The sorrow flows, and like white torches
The spruces stand all colored, glad and gay.
They look like linden trees in summer,
Who crept among the wormwood here today.
The absinthe of snow crawls into your sight,
And tickles the sky with its bitter-sweet smell.
The white and the stinging fat bees take to flight,
Around it they sluggishly circle and swell…
Перекладач: Andriy M. Freishyn-Chirovsky
Оригінал: З вікна