Melancholia

 Birch forest cries

falling leaves

the arms of the winter is

while traveling to all natural.

Wild squirrels scuttle out there,

and here gather winter stocks.

The human body to burn

freezing wind raw clinch.

Common are we travel,

Common morning of October

Towards the end of the scythe woman

some underworld hut

ride. The white frost

The color was painted by the morning

in the twilight. This morning

melancholy crowned

strange head writer.

Unfortunately, nailing the soul

the joy stick to one of melancholy

Calvary's cross-tree to catch,

I do not find a way to catch up now

beautiful dreams.