I'm looking in the face of frost alone:
He is - to nowhere, I'm - nowhere from,
A plain around is pressed, ironed out,
The living suface's any wrinkle without.
And sun is screwing it eyes in a starched poverty,
It's look is silent, and rather is consoling,
And that ten-valued woods are just the same as before...
The only snow is crackling in eyes, it is
Like the clean bread, so sinless...
16 Jan 1937
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem