Again we're wandering the warm land
The malachite meadow of the sea
Returning birds are dying
Among oranges at the crossroads

On the purple-gray meadows
The sky extends the liquidity of arcades
Landscape softly sinks into eyelids
Dried up salt on bare lips

And in the evenings in currents of bays
The nigth licks sea with its sweet mane
Summer swells up like soft pears
Scalded with wind like with a nettle

In front of pearly fountains the night
Gives away grapes of stars
Again we're wandering the warm soil
Again we're wandering the warm
Land