Fog over the river

And here again, at dawn
In the heights, deserted and free,
The villages of birds fly to the seas
Blackening with a triangular chain.

The dawn is clear, the steppe is silent,
The sunset turns red, flaring up ...
And quietly in the sky this chain
Floats, swaying measuredly.

What a distance and height!
You look - and blue abyss
Heaven's autumn depth
As if melting over you.

And this distance hugs, -
The soul is ready to surrender to her
And new, bright thoughts, sadness
Liberates from the earthly.

I. Bunin 1898