(ne vosprinimajte vserjez, a to opjat budut pinat za grammatiku:))

When she came back, it was nearly winter,
so she gave for a ticket all her light clothes.
She tucked smokes of seaports in her warm hinterland,
in her blood, the dried petals
of roses.

And I leafed through her books of pepper and cinnamon,
and listened listlessly to her lies,
and to obscure, maturing at depths unknown,
Coal, the black stone,
and the green plant, Grass.

Tinnier then filings rang the flour she sowed.
Under its own inertia, the Sun rolled.
And she waited every night for the snow,
finally, for some snow,
but the snow, unlike her,
wouldn't fall.