April.

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/ The bright memory of my stepfather -

From his poetic heritage /

Spring. April. Drops on the street

And a bird hubbub is at the source.

With meltwood, melt water to the river strives for a pool,

An ice drift is suitable for deadlines.

A starling flew from wintering

In a palace nailed on the pole,

He told about the far edges inadvertently.

How the sky is overwhelmed, the stroke chips, sings.

And the song of joy is in the source.

And the red sun looks at the ground with a clear, warm eye.

And the birch bark us with his transparent, sweet juice.