The church is mute. Behind the window’s blue
the flakes of snow in an unhurried flitting,
and through the silvery hoar frost of fur-trees
are seen the outlines of deeply sleeping city.
Three bull-finches, just like new year balls,
well decorate the old tree in the yard.
I’m excited – what if just today
the evil blizzards will blow not so hard…
And the nature will stand still in waiting,
and the darkness disperses towards night.
And there burns up the Bethlehem star,
lighting up vacant haze of the sky.