The sky of the day is clear, But clang of the armours here. Throughout the land thereís boom, The trees are in rosin and sorrowful. Smoke, ashes are rising as the crosses look. And the storks donít weave their nests on the roofs. The earís colour as the amber... Could we glean? No. So may be we useless having sowed them. What is there such yellow tossing far? Thatís the fire in fields flaming up. All have wandered away to other places. The song-birds are absent - Only ravens. And the trees are in dust - autumn near. Those, who couldnít sing - gave up them. And the love not for us - ainít it, Whatís essential today - hatred? Smoke, ashes do rise - as crosses look. Storks do not weave their nests on the roofs. Both the water and earth - groaning. But the forest, as usual, with crowns all. Only more miracles - calling "A-a-u!" With pre-war sounds loudly. All have gone to the east from the calamities. Neither song-bird exists, nor the stork any. The air keeps sounds All different. But thereíre the clang And the boom here. Even the clatter of hoofs Of horsesís flat. Even somebodyíll cry - Quietly. All have gone to the east from the troubles. Storks donít weave their nests on the roofs either.
© Lyudmila Purgina. Translation, 2010