Прощание с новогодней елкой

Blue crown, crimson trunk
tinkle of green cones .
Somewhere along the rooms wind passed :
there congratulating lovers.
Somewhere he touched the old string -
stretches their roll ...
That January coasting - ran ,
mad as a train .

We are in the nines decked thee,
we'll have loyally served .
Loud in cardboard tubes pipes,
if the deed in a hurry.
Even believe somewhere in the moment
(be aware of the naivete of the heart )
women of the enchanted face
merged with your eternal festival .

At the moment of parting , at the hour of payment,
on the day of the week withering
than it became you all right?
What are they all gone crazy ?!
And sophisticated as nightingales ,
proud as grenadiers ,
what your capable hands
hide your cavaliers ?

There would have to meet them - time to calm ,
no to all of them - rasstaralas ...
But start banging wheels :
how hard to leave !
But it starts again vanity.
Time in their own judges .
And in the hustle and bustle you have removed from the cross,
and Sunday will not be.

Spruce mine, Spruce - leaving deer,
in vain you probably tried :
women of the careful shadow
in the needles of your lost !
Spruce mine, Spruce, like the Savior on Spilled Blood ,
your silhouette remote ,
as if surprised trace of love,
outbreak , unquenched .