Your grounded planes – they will take off from the grass;
Your horizons are clear; your harbors are free of disturbance.
People crowd your streets and amuse you with their emergence,
Your are throwing them gold; you were never informed - it was brass;
Of the ones in original presence, only three remain in accordance -
But my queen, who allows them singing of mass?
It’s about your eyes – no one recalls their hue,
Just these nightingales sing, of species, highly infrequent.
Doors are under a key, as dawn follows dusk in a sequel;
Only fishermen’s gaze is permitted to turn after you.
You have been misinformed – they are banned from staring at liquid;
But my queen, who will darken the light in their view?
Your harbors are glowing with sails of extravagant gems,
Where crew in ascetical vestments drink to wife of the captain in power,
But returns to their chambers at midnight – anchors pulled at the earliest hour,
They are sailing around the world – where day in darkness remains
More than night. Their ship piece by piece is devoured,
But they are sailing, your highness, - there are other strengths.
But nightly, time reverses its’ line,
And the day, arriving tomorrow, has been lived for two thousand years;
But white horseman is laughing; he is never destruct by appearance,
And vessel of white, propelled by the wings of a swan, has risen its’ sails;
Watchmen of spring every year increase interference,
But my queen – your gaze will serve as a sign.
My queen, the movement of ice has begun;
But when rivers are rising abruptly, it’s not even worthy of answers;
Palms are filling with amber; it will keep on burning till sunrise,
As the song of apple tree brunches is going largely unsung,
But it isn’t for long, and our star never changes its’ brightness;
Quiet down, my queen; can you hear – the snow is falling;
Yes, my queen, the New Year has come!