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The heavenly bodies will go out at night
in run-up to epoch’s collapse –
and they will be sorry, that we are gone,
instead of the Song – hollow gaps.

As if a lunar dust, oblivion is flowing,
and fathomless dusk will go down,
and over the Motherland, snowy and drowsy
it will a burning feather grass be rising.

Who judged us – will go down with us to gloom,
With bloody freedom celebrating their feast.
Eternity’s ice will close up over us,
the stormy firmament will freeze.

And still once again will the water of Faith
be splashed in the empty eye sockets
of Ocean – the dead water will go away to abyss,
fog’s shreds will be settled on summits.

The demon will vanish from fear as Hun,
and Angel will go down from Heaven at noon.

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