As clear August, gentle and calm,
Conscious of the fleeting beauty.
Gilding wood sheets,
He cleaned up his senses in order.
It seems to be a scorching hot afternoon, -
With him are more akin to sad dreams,
Coolness, the charm of quiet simplicity
And rest from life restless.
The last time, before the point of the sickle,
Gilded ears of liquid,
Instead of flowers everywhere the fruits of the earth.
The sight of a heavy sheaf is pleasant,
And in the sky of cranes a crowd flies
And he sends a cry "forgive" to the native places.
Writer: Balmont Konstantin
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