A little girl runs along a sleeping valley; takes running, dives in a flower haze. The yellow cloud of flower pollen lightly rises above her, and in a moment it is gone with a wind on the edge of earth...
Her tiny heels, like melon slices flash among floral heads.
She lies, and her small plaits stick up. She lies on the crushed grass, thoughtlessly stirring legs and concentrated examining the glossy petals of the field camomile…
Women time… It begins the running only. The tight spring of life is yet quiet in her sleeping heart. The world is great, and in this world she feels comfort with her simple child secrets, little joys and infinite sorrows.
The world is great and does not wait time of awakening of her soul, because her secrets remain naive child secrets for this purpose experienced world. Her joys are too small, to dilute salt of unexpected, clouded the world, sorrows... And heart... Let it sleeps; let it knows nothing about bottomless of human passions, none of which costs his awakening from chaste sleep.
Women time… It is flight of moth at a night-light. It is twinkling in ether of bit of fluff of flying around on wind dandelion. It is bird wing trace in the unsteady blue of dawn sky...
Woman… Woman keeps in her little heart the ever-burning fire of Love to all living.
She is born for Love - in Love. She is Mother of human kind, she quiet expiates of mankind sins, she keeps the secret of all living. Love is before and after everything the name of which is Loneliness...
A little girl runs along a quiet dawn road. Her tiny heels dip into a thick road dust. She habitually flaps by a little stick, driving a thoughtful sedate cow. The cow occasionally stands still, as if listening to the fighting a clot of life in the womb.
The shade from rare stone obliquely lies down on the grey surface of road, and a girl, remembering about the recent injuries, stands aside them, again and again funnily jumping up on the thin sunburnt legs.
A new day begins.
Translated by Alexander Pryazhnikov