There’s a morn demon. He’s of gauze and light, The happy one – with golden hair. Like skies, is blue his tunic’s airy flood, All – in a play of brilliants, fair. But like through azures sometimes look dark nights, Thus through his face sometimes looks something horrid, Something dark-red – through his curls’ shining gold, Through his soft voice – forgotten tempests’ blasts. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, October, 2002