The four-year old.
Eyes icy cold,
Eyebrows, fated already . . .
Today for the first time
You see the ice-floe
From the Kremlin heights;
Look below.

The ice-floe, ice-floe
And cupolas.
Ringing of gold, gold
And silvery tone.
With your arms crossed so,
Mouth still.
Eyebrows knitted ... - Napoleon,
You study Kremlin hill.

'Mama - where does the ice go?'
'Forward - little swan,
Past churches, and palaces, gates below,
Forward, little swan.'
Lovely
Blue eyes now worry:
'O Marina, you love me?'
'Surely.'
'For always?'
'Yes.'

Sunset - and then
Soon home- again.
And you to the nursery, me -
Me, I shall read - rude letters,
And bite" lips - so...

And the ice-floe
Still
Moves below.