I crave for the roses and garden my best, That’s clad in the best in the word airy fence. Where statues remember me youthful and blessed, And I – them all covered by Neva’s cold waves. In silence, so fragrant, amidst limes of kings, I hear: the ship's masts are squeaking in swings. And sails the white swain through the ages again, Enjoying the charm of his brother-of-twain. And deadly sleep hundreds of thousands steps Of friends and of foes, of foes and friends. And the train of shadows has no the end From vase’s granite to the palace of grand. There whisper each other my white nightly skies Of somebody’s love, very secret and high. And all shines with jasper and pearl in the night… But nobody knows a source of the light.