So nice and fluffy, Not wise — not suffer; Marten plays on fresh snow. White fur scintillates On light of midnight-moon, With light heart Marten plays on midnight. Cold night — she plays, Sun shine — same ways; Marten plays still, Marten plays on a hill. Makes her animal deal, Yonder, place of ant-hill. Look around, marten For started hunting. Hunter lifts his Fowling-piece; Howling hound Seeks around, Ready for gory hunting. Flee away, my little marten. By the by, do you think Is making mantle of marten is only possible? Nothing a kind! Do you know what a pretty sash May turn out of a marten?
Стихотворение Ильи (он же Cold Deer, он же Колдырь; отчество-фамилию не помню, контактов уже нет; если набредёт и захочет — пусть свяжется, контакты есть на сайте)