L. Smirnov

The sun sets in a sea of golden woods.
The pitches burn on trunks like newborn poppies,
And, like an April brook in gully’s copies, 
The cloud’s edges glare in heavens, smoothed.

The day sends me the scripts – the flaming strophes, 
But on the crags, the night blasts’ puffs effuse:
It seems to you, your look is half-diffused, 
Half-taken by the dark amidst her trophies.

No, they’ll preserve – and flowers and stars – 
The trace of your look, settled in a fire,
If it is washed with kind tears from your eyes.

But if these flames aren’t by star-falls inspired,  
But by the hatred and the evil mire – 
Spirit of yours, beware the future darks! 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 2002