Nest at home

Again the stork flew to the old willow,
 Perched at the nest, barely breathing.
 The poles creaked softly on the gate,
 Shook the branches, vines rustling.
 
 And my heart was pounding like a cage.
 The white bird leaned over the nest,
 Bow myself... and on the same branch,
 Where dawn met, silently, sometimes.
 
 And will call again willow on the ples,
 And the moon will rise above the Cup of silver.
 Small swell, on the silver slope,
 Moire's blanket is covered with a sleepy wave.
 
 Night-beauty as a diva, kareoka,
 Pearls of stars will decorate the sky,
 And the dawn, and the forest... though the glow is far away,
 But the saffron of heaven hides the secrets of the waters.
 
 In a light haze, in a spider's web, not far,
 Two dewdrops braid knots…
 And a tear, washing, stings the eye,
 Silver shining, bursting springs.
 
 Everything here is painfully familiar and familiar,
 And, creaking, calls that old threshold...
 At least the nest on the branches near the house was mowed down,
 But there is no nicer hut, God knows.