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At the beginning of MayI played, Khabarovsk floating,on an ice floe thawedI played ensemble tool,I played on an ice floe.On strings hares shivered,and citizensflowers and money threwfloating by.On the bank of warmly and peacefullyconversations flew.Still streams ran to the coursefrom under concrete,still I hung over turnfog spring.That blues, Russian, sambaI played ensemble,being removed to the middle,on an old ice floe! Hard music was -as a wind dumped from a wing,the river froliced and flew,sinking into dotage.Reality — that is more clear, than a reality,and I would be let by swimming,I departured, playing an ice drift,and me would pour on iceflowers and money! And hoarse listening to a clarinet,having been anew on light,citizens after would look,shouting silently: for the first time and not foreverbefore them — thawed snow,and a course of the exhausted icein a vice of bends!