Skies today are all clear, stunning, But the armor is here, rattling. All across our vast land: humming, And the trees are so sad, sapping. Rising up like a cross is black smoke, Not a rooftop will host nesting storks. Amber ears of wheat grow eagerly, ďAll in vain,Ē comes a thought, bitterly. Whatís that amber ahead, shimmering? Thereís a fire in the field, flickering. All were scattered away. Torment! No more songbirds remain: Corvids! And the trees are in dust, brightened. Every songster is hushed, silent. Not for us love was made, isnít it? Hatred is of a main interest. Rising up like a cross is black smoke, Not a rooftop will host nesting storks. Forest rustles with its canopy, Land and water are in agony. But itís not without a miracle. Forestís sounds are pre-war typical. From their woes all went off easterly, There are no storks remain, no passerines. Now the air contains sounds different; Rattles, clangs go in rounds, bickering. Comes the clatter of hooves quivering Someoneís screams sound aloof, whispering. From their woes all went off easterly, There are no storks remain, no passerines.
© Kirill Tolmachev. Translation, 2021