I write

November nail the cruellest,
the woman's neck scratches again.
I am trapped in the middle of the darkness,
this sentiment name I do not know how to give.
Memories somewhere in the summer of refuge.
From words to boil porridge mixed,
they are an echo of something,
I got it from the catch.

Echoes of love,
yesterday the energy of life.
I write the mantra black
much Advisory, for tomorrow
darkness-supporting.
For me, this world
not much to give,
my heart carries in it
crying wood, old rot rowan.

My heart whispers the words into the air,
you were not with me only
wind transient contact with the hair.
You were soft, like a white, airy
meadow wool. I walk the boardwalks spouses
along, and I cry in pain.
Oh, mother earth, I'm one of you
daughters, one without a descendant of the maiden.
Karelian writer.