In the valley the birches are bored.
On the meadows, fog billows and weighs.
Sodden, with horse-dung floored,
The highroad blackens in haze.
Rich on the steppe's sleepy air,
The odor of freshly-baked bread.
Bent to their packs, slowly fare
Two beggars to look for a bed.
Round puddles gleam in the streets.
The fumes of the ovens stun.
Thawing, the bleak earthen seats
Smolder and steam in the sun.
By the corn-bin, dragging his chain,
The sheep-dog yawns on the sill.
Walls smoke with the charcoal stain.
The steppe is foggy and still.
The carefree cock will perform
Day-long for the sap-stirred earth.
In the fields it is drowsy and warm,
In the heart—indolent mirth.
Скучно в лощинах березам,
Туманная муть на полях,
Конским размокшим навозом
В тумане чернеется шлях.
В сонной степной деревушке
Пахучие хлебы пекут.
Медленно две побирушки
По деревушке бредут.
Там, среди улицы, лужи,
Зола и весенняя грязь,
В избах угар, а снаружи
Завалинки тлеют, дымясь.
Жмурясь, сидит у амбара
Овчарка на ржавой цепи.
В избах — темно от угара,
Туманно и тихо — в степи.
Только петух беззаботно
Весну воспевает весь день.
В поле тепло и дремотно,
А в сердце счастливая лень.
«Every morning, summer morning, every summer, / If your day begins before the sunrise ends / You will notice, you will witness as a merry little drummer / Takes his maple drumsticks in his little hands. / You will notice, you will witness as a merry little drummer / Takes his maple drumstic...»
«Four winters, pal, we stood the grounds, / And now spring is back on track. / With war, we've settled all accounts, / Let's go home, pick up your sack. The war was slashing us and bending, / And now we have paid it back. / For four years mothers have been waiting, / Let's go home, pick ...»
«You are before him as a stalk lean, / He is before you — a wild beast. / Don't lure him with a smiling. / Hush, when he door knocking. When he thus forces to enter, / Stand behind the door, guarding: / May be you can inflaming / All the dry house and still. But if the rock is near, /...»
«But the nights are really absolutely stunning. / Only mother's restless worrying has grown: / Why must you go wandering, my honey, / On your own? On your own? / / I run from one end of April to the other. / Stars above me mellowed down, grew big as apples. / Nothing's wrong: I am on d...»