The sons were standing near the wall flashing their spur-shod feet. They were elated and said:

Make it public now father
What is Sweath in terms of matter.

The father, flashing his eyes, replied to them:

You sons should never mix
Day of the end, daughter of spring.
Scary, blue and hoary's Sweath.
I'm your angel. I'm a father.
Its severity I know,
And my death will shortly come.
On my head there are a-gaping
Bald spots, temples high — dejection.
And if life does its very best
Then soon there will be nothing left
Neither church mouse nor hair.
It seems my death will shortly come.
It seems mind out dejection.

The sons, having rung bells, pealed their tongues:

But this is not what we want to know,
We our thoughts like palace bring forth.
Will you just tell us now father
What is Sweath in terms of matter.

And exclaimed the father: Synaxarion,
And Synaxarion's essential is God.
Sink into sleep my sons,
Stand at gaze for dreams.

The sons went to bed. Hiding mushrooms in their pocket. It seemed, the walls, even they were obedient. Ah, who cares what seemed. But all in all to us like to them not much seemed. But hark! What's this? The father had been evasive when answering the question again. And this is what he said to his newly awoken sons, exclaiming and flashing his brows:

Let Hoary folk all sing and dance.
Wave their hands
Like a man.

On a peaceful day of bliss
You run out.
Quite soon death's fineness
I'll perceive.

The horses dash by like waves,
Shoes chatter.
The jaunty steeds are full of fever
Away haste.

But where to comprehend a way,
Are all men mortal?
What will you tell me second split
Am I to understand you?

The bed is there before me,
I'll quietly lie.
Assimilate near the wall
With flowers and a flag.

Sons, sons. My hour's coming.
I'm dying. I'm dying.
Don't take the steamboat,
All is washed-up.

The sons, lined up, flashing their feet, begin to dance quadrille. First son, same as first couple:

What is Sweath in terms of matter
Please do tell me now father.

Second son, same as second couple:

Could it be that Sweath is lead
And a baby and a wreath.

Third son, same as third couple:

Father I can't understand
Where is he? who is Sweath?

The father, flashing his eyes, moans ferociously:

Oh I in pillows with no stir.

First son:

Eh father, murmur I concur.
You're not to die,
You should firstly curge reply.

Second son, dancing like a loyal subject:

Ah, Sweath, Sweath, Sweath.
Ah, father, father, father.

And the third son, dancing like a shot:

Dolls are all body a cap,
I'm canoe canoe canap.

The sons cease to dance - having a good time shouldn't last forever, and silently and quietly sit down near father's faded-out bed. They stare into his withering eyes. They want to reiterate through it all. The father is dying. He becomes large like a bunch of grapes. We find it terrifying to stare into his, as the phrase is, face. Each son secretly and soundlessly enters their own superstitious wall.

Sweath is the cold sweat coming out of a dead man's forehead. It's death's dew, this is what Sweath is.

Part two

The father is flying above the writing-table. Don't you think he's a spirit though.

I saw please enter rose,
This tiresome earth's petal.
Last thoughts, it seemed,
That flower pondered over.

It was stroking nearby mountains
With its soul's final breath.
Duchesses were floating past it
And stars in celestial wilderness.

My sons retreated all,
My horse was like a wave
Stood rooted and a-stamping,
The moon nearby was yellow.

Felicity's staunch flower,
The hour of God is impending.
The whole world sets in like a dawn,
And I've become dim like a flare.

The father ceases to speak in verse and starts smoking a candle, holding it between his teeth like a flute. In so doing, he sinks into the chair as a pillow.

The first son comes in and says: But he hasn't answered the questions. That is why he asks the pillow a question straight away:

Pillow pillow
Please do tell now
What is Sweath in terms of matter.

Pillow, same as father:

I know it. Know it!

The second son inquires hastily:

So you should answer,
Why keep it to yourself.

The third son is fully ablaze with desire:

You are widowing in vain
Cosy pillow.
Answer

First son:

Answer at once.

Second son:

Bring hither fire, fire!

Third son:

I'll gibbet someone now:

Pillow, same as father:

A little patience,
And mayhaps I will answer it all
I'd like to listen to some singing,
Then I'll have force to talk.

I'm in exhaustion.
The art would have given me strength
Goodbye foundation,
I want to listen to your voices set to music.

Then the sons weren't able to say no to that astonished request made by their father. They herded up like cattle and sang a global song.

Be brother bold Brute
A marvellous Roman.
All lie. All die.

That was the first stanza. Second stanza:

Sang drank ran about
A single rope-walker.
He's an aerialist. Gaul.

Third stanza:

Ambler
From the other side
Awaits the break of day.

And while they were singing, wonderful, splendid, all-and-sundry-subjugating music was playing. And it seemed, various feelings still had a place on earth. Like a miracle the sons were standing around the homely pillow waiting with a senseless hope for an answer to their unenviable and savage, imposing question: what is Sweath? And the pillow was now flying, now soaring up into the firmament like a candle, now running about the room like Dnieper. The father sat above the writing like cow-wheat table, and the sons akin to umbrellas stood near the wall. This is what Sweath is.

Part three

The father felt his legs on a bronze steed, and the sons stood on each side. And the third son now stood near the tail, now near the face of the horse. Like it is apparent to us and to him, he was beside himself. And the horse was like a wave. No one uttered a single word. Everyone talked through thought.

 

Right then the father straddling the steed and stroking a sweet duck, exclaimed in his thoughts and started flashing his eyes:

You're keen to know if father'll take the floor
Whether he will elucidate Sweath.
God I am a disconsolate widower,
I am a sinless singer.

First son, bending down, picked a nickel up from the floor and moaned in his thoughts and flashed his feet:

Father, the end is a-pressing
On your head I see a wreath.
Ringing bells is beneath you.
You're already a fruit-drop.

The second son was very upset, she bent down from another side and picked up a ladies' handbag. He cried thoughts and flashed his feet:

If I were a priest
Or dead, a player,
I would visit your palace
O almighty Creator.

And the third son standing near the tail of the horse, and, nipping at his moustache with his thoughts, flashed his feet:

Where is the key to my mentality?
Where is sun's ray,
Presented by you winter?

And having moved to the face of the horse, which was like a wave, and stroking his hair with his thoughts, flashed his feet:

Eyebrows you do not see father,
Bloods deserted so sweath.

Then the father took a barrel of a weapon out of his pockets and showing it to his children, exclaimed loudly and cheerfully, flashing his eyes:

Look: a barrel,
And to what extent it's swollen.

First son:

Where? show me.

Second son:

Everywhere. Like siskins.

Third son:

The last of fears
Recently
After the liturgy
To ashes was reduced.

And suddenly the doors of heaven opened,
And nanny stepped out of the shed,
And she was wearing a cap.
And that again reminded all of their everlasting question of
What is Sweath in terms of matter.

In an instant dire silence ensued. Akin to candies the sons were lying across the night room, rotating their white hoary napes and flashing their feet. Superstition came over everyone.

A cap crowned nanny's head,
Her weight was like a merchant's.

The nanny had started putting the father, who had turned into a child's bone, to bed. She was singing a song to him:

Solemnly above your cradle
Over lips saliva sails
Moon resides.
Above the grave, above the spruce
Sleep and pine,
Never wake up,
Rather get strewn.
Hey you smith forge! forge!
In the smithy we'll drop off.
Prisoners we all.

And while she was singing, wonderful, splendid, all-and-sundry-subjugating music was playing. And it seemed, various feelings still had a place on earth. Like a miracle the sons are standing near their father's quietly faded-out bed. They want to reiterate through it all. We find it terrifying to stare into his, as the phrase is, face. And the pillow was now flying, now soaring up into the firmament akin to a candle, now running about the room like Dnieper. Sweath is the cold sweat coming out of a dead man's forehead. It's death's dew, this is what Sweath is.

God, the sons could say, if they could. It's what we did know in advance.