Nikolay Zabolotsky
Inside of this birchen grove...

Inside of this birchen grove,
Far away from misfortune and woe,
Which, blushing pink, will rove
The continuous day-breaking glow,
Where, from highness arboreal,
Clear leaf avalanches arrive,
Sing a desert song, golden oriole,
Sing the song of my life.

Flying over a meadow's face,
From above seeing out tribe,
You have chosen the commonplace,
Wooden miniature pipe,
In the fresh of the morning light,
Paying visit to human retreat,
With a service humble and purified,
My morning to meet.

But in life we're all battling.
At the very edge of the mind,
Where atoms are rattling,
Leaving whirled houses behind,
As if mad windmill machinery,
Wars are flapping wings far and near.
Where are you, hermit of greenery?
Why so silent, my dear?

Surrounded by thunder claps,
Where a bulrush-black river lies,
You are passing the mountain gaps,
Flying over debris of demise.
Inconversable rover,
You sing me a soldier's farewell,
And a deathly cloud stretches over,
Above where you dwell.

Beyond grandiose waterway,
Sun will rise and, in early mist,
With my eye lashes burned away,
Lying down, I will cease to exist.
With a trembling mad raven's scream
The machine gun will finish it's part,
And the song of your voice will start to stream
From my torn open heart.

And all over this birchen grove,
The birchen grove where I stand,
Where the leaves that from branches dove,
In blushed avalanches descend,
Where heavenly glittery,
Chills a flower a droplet of rain,
Day will dawn of glorious victory,
And forever remain.

Translated by Dmitry Yampolsky