As water from a splitted sauser,
As coloured into grey an april water -
My land is splashed all over in rolling,
And never I'll forget it, no more
It will be in the previous role.
But it seems, it dreams for a moment
(In dirty window of bus, framed by eylashes,
From which the gilt is trickling down...
And there the trees are to the left
And to the right - the low fence's row,
Where the blackness of the thawed out grass
Is bristling out in submissive glow,
And on a rusty wire there apart
Is flattering an asphalt's muddy warmth) .
Conniving to the elements unknown,
In softened soil burying compassion,
Russia, all-world by character, for more,
Again is giving birth for unexpected scions,
Who are so similar to me, - and thus
They will be eager to sustain her negligence,
As if there is lying doggo nearby,
In smoke, in the dust of garages,
The other one, - who was seemed, was dreamed one time...
But never came in view to anyone...
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem