And above all, I beg you, grant, Just one more hunt. And then till autumn it won't be far with golden tresses, dim eyes of stars, with voices whose sound one's ear caresses...

Shall I finish or break it off,
Suffer life till the end, through so rough ?
Mostly out of accord with myself
By my own
Or another's fault,
I have lived in a permanent vacuum,
Hauled over hot coals
Without halt.

Book of life...
Not just words, one believes.
Count the years that I've sat over it!
Now its pictures have yellowed a bit
Like the grass in September,
Like leaves.
My head's long gone silvery-white,
Yet with every day that goes by
The last chapter gets harder to compose.

All that sang will sing again
when the times comes by.
Oh, how simple it all is,
Simply makes me cry !