Gray mists rolled in,
Heavy dews left in the grass.
Writes summer morning novels,
Where the nightingales sing.
The first rays struck the bells,
And the mists hid them.
We trudged through the dew as if drunk,
In the mist leaving sin.
We two had only one joy,
The kisses flowed again and again.
We didn't see it as our fault,
We were United by love forever.
And the village smelled of pipes,
The third roosters fell silent-it's time...
Mists began to rise,
The old gate creaked wistfully.
