Outside there’s rainstorm and slush,
What to mourn is difficult to spot for.
It’s boring, I have a slobbery mind,
And I can’t waste my power anymore.
And there’s a grief without reason
And the thought’s intoxication inside.
Then let us chop the wood slivers,
And burn up the samovar for us!
Perhaps, under the tea hang-over
My grumbling toungue
Will warm with a sudden joy
Your sleepy eyes.
For faith of an old honour!
For a slow life speed!
Perhaps, the soul is steamed all over
By the cup of tea!
10 december 1915
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