2021.11.05.
Oriole
In this birch grove,Far from suffering and misery,
Where the unblinking pink
morning light fluctuates,
Where the leaves fall from the high branches
Like a transparent avalanche,—
Sing to me, oriole, a desolate song,
The song of my life.
But in life we are soldiers,
And already on the limits of our sanities
The atoms shudder,
Whirling up the houses like a white whirlwind.
Like crazy windmills,
Wars are waving their wings around.
Where are you, oriole, forest hermit?
Why are you silent, my friend?
Beyond the great rivers
The sun will rise, and in the morning gloom
With singed eyelids
I will drop, dead, on the ground.
Screeching like a mad raven,
The machine gun will be silenced, trembling all over.
And then in my torn-up heart
Your voice will sing.