I saw the rain, although it might have been snow, who knows?
But I was confused, and couldn't open my eyes till dawn.
Just one more fleeting moment, and she, who holds the strings, will be seen at last;
But stairs to her place go up and endlessly curl round, -
This is all our fault.
Books always have way too many right words,
But every night I see everything like the first time.
No one can lead me out of this tangled web of stairway railings going upward;
But she, who looks at me from murky darkness of the stair flights,
Has heard nothing about wings,
She's not aware that these are dreams,
She's not aware that these are dreams.
Every my step is calculated as yours [is].
And that's an excuse not to believe spoken words.
Every letter I wrote you is read here just as it's read there;
But I would like to tell you this, although you wouldn't trust me,
But know: this is all true -
She's not aware that these are dreams.