Vsevolod Rojdestvensky

Along the field fly the white horses – 
The herds of  January winds.
The Frost engraves the dreams and roses
In glass of windows from their sills.

Maybe, it was a dream – the window
With green trees of the alien land,
Where sun kills with a stroke, single,
And which his feet are ne’er to tread. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 2002