The fog of nighttime sleep, the dusty plaque of languor,

I wash them off by gently-gold heavy sponge,

Which’s full of swollen foam soap in all over,

The fragrant thick and very charming storage.

It’s lightly bluish, in the pool of milk-white water,

Which‘s slightly visible, but stirring vapor,

And I place me with all my grateful body

In its calm heat and gentle flavor.

And afterwards, enjoying that silky care,

I often like the icy moisture to obtain

My blades to pour one moment and there

By fluffy sheets I need me to entwine.

Then while my skin is slightly dry I drape it

With cool and light textile fabric of own,

With songs of struggle, searching for a feat,

It’s fair to say, that both ready—body and soul.

So every little thing we—children, poets,

Are always able to apply into a miracle,

And in the usual we heavenly signs guess

And our any touch, make color it …