Slow, slow, painful progress,
Asarota sun set.
Mist of doing native tales,
I do not go tales.

Flowers wilt, wilt of mint,
A long, long winds sad.
Silvery sails of dreams
Black pines darken the grave.

Slow, slow the pace today,
Neatnākšu visit tomorrow.
Pair of love, over dreaming
Homeland in the sand falls.

Skaniet quiet, gender forests
Cemetery ventures succeed mint bloom;
Make sure that the low speed
White plowman homeward go.

yet at hand stiff
Rye ears included in the present.
It is as if desirous of re-
Dear Druvas call.

Go slow, gray peas,
Cemetery gate tell the story of course,
Across the heart hushed
Land sand blanket class.

The invocation comes vakarstunda,
Sunset pink shawl swept away in the sun;
Oh, bright, atskaties,
In hundreds of hours of echo
We were together -
The sun, love, I ...

we no longer neuzvizēsim,
At dark we will no longer neatstaigāsim,
It is no longer a cloud neuzzīmēsim
Face.
Neither the racial nobradāsim.
At the hayloft longer neielīdīsim
And they no longer Pērkones neravēsim ...
At the river, we are no longer neiebridīsim,
In the wind we are no longer nestāvēsim.
The garden is really frost,
Frost sunflower crying
Just do not mention the death of the trees,
And more birds around,
But having to go, they go,
The sun will write letters to others;
Since the silver scream
Disappears into the air a beam
Not the loss - the normal passage of life.

white sniegainēm the brown spruce ark
By birch gatve dragged away a black day
For a moment the winds came, bow their heads,
Former vakarzvaigzne pale morning light tanned.

mother believed
What\'s in bloom longer than one life.
In a new mother was his whole life.

song about dying feet in the sand -
your song, Mother.
A song about dying sand feet
no it neizdziedāt.

tongues land
Sun and respect will be asked,
The first thunder with joy
I lack you.

swing days. Bees
Jasmine honey Sukses.
Flower and concern among
I lack you.

Trīsošiem fingers fall
The last page Pluk.
Among the trees bare souls
I lack you.

And then frost iron plaque,
Partly cloudy white snowdrift yoke.
At the empty ledusceļā
You will be short.

When I was shaving in the grave for burial,
Autumn rain will cry pages.
Behind the scent of coniferous dvingas clone,
Hands will be cold and rigid.
Hands that once sage glauda,
Softwood articles in blankets were woven,
Will sleep peacefully on the chest -
Autumn rain Rogue behind the panes.