American Land

 

My mind has thunderstorms,

 That brood for heavy hours:

 Until they rain me words;

My thoughts are drooping flowers

And sulking, silent birds.

Yet come, dark thunderstorms,

 And brood your heavy hours;

 For when you rain me words,

 My thoughts are dancing flowers

And joyful singing birds.

 

Грози в душі висиджують

Зливи, як курченят,

Доки ті не випадуть

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