The sky of the day
is clear,
But clang of the armours
here.

Throughout the land
there’s boom,
The trees are in rosin
and sorrowful.

Smoke, ashes are rising
as the crosses look.
And the storks don’t weave
their nests on the roofs.

The ear’s colour as the amber...
Could we glean?
No. So may be we useless
having sowed them.

What is there such yellow
tossing far?
That’s the fire in fields
flaming up.

All have wandered away
to other places.
The song-birds are absent -
Only ravens.

And the trees are in dust -
autumn near.
Those, who couldn’t sing -
gave up them.

And the love not for us -
ain’t it,
What’s essential today -
hatred?

Smoke, ashes do rise -
as crosses look.
Storks do not weave their nests
on the roofs.

Both the water and earth -
groaning.
But the forest, as usual,
with crowns all.

Only more miracles -
calling "A-a-u!"
With pre-war sounds
loudly.

All have gone to the east
from the calamities.
Neither song-bird exists,
nor the stork any.

The air keeps sounds
All different.
But there’re the clang
And the boom here.

Even the clatter of hoofs
Of horses’s flat.
Even somebody’ll cry -
Quietly.

All have gone to the east
from the troubles.
Storks don’t weave their nests
on the roofs either.