Land of mine in dire neglect,
Country run to waste,
Fields of hay unmown as yet,
Monastery, estate.
Every cottage is askew,
Five there are in all.
In the setting sun their roofs
Foam as shadows fall.
Under shirt-thatch coverings
Roof-ribs соте to view,
Wind-blown specks of sunlight tinge
Mould of dove-grey hue.
Hitting panes unerringly
Crows past windows weave,
Like а snowstorm, the bird cherry
Waves а blossom-sleeve.
Wasn't your life а fairytale,
А legend of the past
То а late wayfarer told
Ву the feather-grass?