There festers yet your burned body; shadows still drag themselves to pare and flay you! And still there lurks for you a wolfish hounding of autumn — rank, moulted winds — —
Already snow-lambkins go in search of white wool for you and somewhere a regal frost sucks the slumbering Dniepr and the rough Volga and sips a white salve from all your rivers .
And at every post of yours — a hope bends to me, like a small settlement on the way — on your twilit plains .