In Spasskoe, unforgettable September sheds its leaves.
Isnt it time to close up the summer-house?
Echo traps the thudding of axe-blows in the trees,
and, past the fence, barters a herd-boys shout.
Last night the marsh by the park shivered, too.
The moment the sun rises it vanishes.
The bluebell cant drink the rheumatic dew,
and a dirty lilac stain soils the birches.
The woods downcast. It wants to sleep, as well,
under the snow, in the deep quiet of the bears den.
The park, gaping, framed by tree-trunks stands still,
in neat obituary-columns, its edges blackened.
Has the birch copse stopped fading, staining,
its shade more watery still, and growing thin?
And again, youre, fifteen its still complaining
again oh child, oh, what shall we do with them?
Theyre already so many its time to stop playing.
Theyre birds in the bushes, mushrooms in the trees.
Already weve veiled our horizon with them, shrouding
each others landscape with fog-bound mysteries.
The comic, on the night of his death, typhus-stricken,
hears a peal: its Homeric laughter from the box.
Today in Spasskoe, the same grief, in hallucination,
stares, from the road, at a house of weathered logs.
