Among thousands of plants in the steppe

Just one I'll pick -

A branch of a bitter wormwood.

 

Like rustling of leafs on the branches

In the silent orchard

I am recollecting my childhood.

 

An immortelle flower

On the table

In the waterless vase.

 

The garden is covered with weeds,

The trees have withered

And soon

The steppe will stretch in the heat

Where my house was.

 

The tree is dying

Taking away on it's bark

The names of the people who used to love.

 

In my cellar there is

A wine

Of the wild grapes.

 

The wallpaper

With a flower design,

The strong medicine's smell -

That is all, that remained

Of the human being.

 

Let the beauty and blossom

Of the sawed branch

Come into your heart

And and in your soul

Let them leave a mark

 

Dropping tears into the fire,

I'm burning

My father's diaries.

 

The house's broken window

Like an eye

Of a snake...

 

A dandelion in the grass,

And a bush

Of the wild currant.

 

The wind in the orchard

The bloom of the cherry trees

Is rustling.

 

This year

So early

The autumn came.

 

The cold

Came to my house

Through the walls.

 

On the avenue of the white houses

Chestnut trees

Are blooming.

 

So sad it is

To stroll about a park

Which no one will visit.

 

An old barn

Disappeared

In the celandine's brushwood.

 

Blooming of the apple-tree

Like a woman’s

Heady scent.