The
golden birch-tree grove has fallen silent
Its
merry chatter having stopped afore,
The cranes
up there flying over, sullen,
Have nobody
to pity any more.
Whom should
they pity? Each is just a trotter.
One comes
and goes and leaves for good again.
The
moon and hempen bush above the water
Remember all
those perished, filled with pain.
I"m
standing on the plain all on my own,
The cranes,
the wind is taking them away,
I think
about my boyhood which has flown,
And I do not
regret my bygones anyway.
I don"t
regret the days that I discarded,
I don"t
feel sorry for the lilac of my soul.
The purple
rowan burning in the garden
Can"t
warm and comfort anyone at all.
The rowan
will maintain its coloration.
The grass
exposed to heat will not decease,
I drop my
words of sorrow and vexation
The way a
tree drops quietly its leaves.
And if some
day the wind of time intended
To rake them
all up in a useless roll...
You ought to
say: the golden grove has ended
Its lovely
chatter in the prime of fall.
1924
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