In the abandoned cemetery, the stones of forgotten graves
Are crossed out by the shadows of old, unnecessary birches.
Only in spring, filled with the sweat of birch veins,
March will pour down on the pebbles like a rain of birch tears.

Here, no one weeps but those black-and-white trees,
Standing along the paths, at the border of night and day.
I will drink their tears, rising up from the graves,
Perhaps the memory of those who lie here will warm me.

The birch sap did not blow against my temple – it’s living water.
And, oh my God, how distant and absurd the cold is!
It will warm me with ancient wine,
It will quench my thirst with oblivion and sleep…

The white guardian angel invited me to the alley,
Spread his hands wide, looking lost, staring into my face.
The world is filled with a vast number of nameless graves,
And the earth, for the most part, consists of nothing but the dead...

The rains rustled down both straight and slantwise,
Greedily drank the flesh, and bore it to the underground seas.
And the birches, like vampires, having sunk into the grave sand,
Draw living souls to the light from the cold earth.

I keep silent, I don't blame them, it's perfectly clear to me,
They stand on blood and bones, not by their own decree.
They are the guardians of dawn and darkness,
The same as me, the same as us…

[End]