…они идут… они поют…

(…they are coming… they are singing…)

In the hush between the trees,

Where the birch roots twist like thieves,

Voices hum in broken light—

Sweet and sharp as iron knives.

Берёзовыe жёны шепчут мне:

"Оставь путь, оставь огни..."

(“The Birch Wives whisper unto me: Leave the road… abandon light…”)

I heard them first through static breath,

A lullaby in the mouth of death.

Tuned my radio through ash and bone—

And found a choir not my own.

They wear no eyes, they speak in crows,

Dancing slow where no one goes.

Their songs are cold, their hearts are red,

They only sing to call the dead…

Берёзовыe жёны, их зов — мой страх...

(“The Birch Wives, their call is my fear…”)

"Ты слышишь?" (Do you hear them?)

Now I walk the path they made,

No lantern, no name to save.

With every step, the forest grows—

And in my throat… their echo flows.

"Теперь ты одна из нас."

("Now… you are one of us.")