Before a storm

Sigh heavy dew...
Lead on the horizon,
Tremble alkalis luxury braids,
And the horizon tells them : "Run ,
because the gene is worried Dubrava".
The wind, rolling out from the mountains,
Drives a cloud of black-browed
They – Gromov shiny beast.
He shoots arrows from afar ,
They light the dew -
And already on her horse of white,
The rough riders graze.
They decide breakfasts,
And horses rush to the gate,
Of which in the thick stuffiness of the morning,
Fire, water and ice are flying...