The limit of patience is too nearby,
It's directing into firmament haze
Like a vector. Now it's time
To strung on the arrowhead
Everything that can be a rhyme
With the word "death".
Inevitably outgoing time
Is measured by grownup gaze.
(It's the loose countdown).
The cold of snow falling athwart
Onto the face
Would be like a reward.
Оригинал:
http://www.proza.ru/2012/12/06/760
P.S. Перевод сильно уступает оригиналу и сильно от него отличается.)