Oleg Dmitriev

The sunsets are still left for old people,
They look strictly at scarlet of height,
As if somewhere to skies’ easy ripple
All young men had directed their flight.

Once in year or, may be, more seldom,
With their head that’s uncovered and gray,
They would sit, looking sadly in trace them, 
Who are driving in their cars away.

And they sit as the eastern old bonzes
Changing not their usual poses,
Only slightly declining back-ward,
And the sunset copiously bronzes
Their faces, reflecting the world.

If a path rises up to a mount,
The young ones would still catch in a sight
The old men, sitting on their ground,
In the warmth of the perishing light.

Life is ending. The day’s in last rapture,
But the distance is so soft and bright,
So graceful is still country’s nature,
That the sadness isn’t pressing a heart.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001