Sergei Yesenin


Silence. In the junipers atop the valley, Autumn - a roam mare - rubs her mane for dressing. Well above the wooded river banks - That's the dark blue clang her horseshoes make. Wind, a monk, walks past with wary footsteps Holding back the foliage on the pathways, Kissing, when he comes upon the mountain ash, Crimson wounds that are the marks of Christ unseen.

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