Leaves are mourning golden color
Fall has painted their girlfriends,
They are mourning when it’s raining,
When the wind is thrashing branches,
Able not to find its peace.
Know leaves that on such dark day
Death may come like bolt of thunder,
Claiming its forsaken victims
That will fall like knights in battle
Ripped off branches by the wind,
And destroyed without mercy
In some crazy, wild vendetta.
Sun will shine, as always, brightly,
Rain will fall to feed the grasses,
And amongst the early blossoms
Birds will chant the hymns to Spring
That will fill with great contentment
Lonely hearts that ache for passion.
Everything will be like always,
But today the leaves will wither
No miracle will save them.
Sun won’t shine for them tomorrow,
Bare trees will soon forget them,
They will turn to worthless garbage,
Useless litter on the ground.
But the leaves don’t want to wither,
Know leaves that Winter’s snows
Won’t arrive soon,
And it’s not their time to die.
True, the Sun will shine tomorrow
And the Spring will bring new sprouts,
But the Sun can’t love the newbies
Like it loved the old cohort.
But the wind keeps thrashing branches
That are shedding yellow soldiers
Battle-weary in the struggle
For their miserable lives.
Wind is soulless, it can’t fathom
What it means to leave existence.
Knows wind that death may happen
Any hour, any minute,
Pretty daydreams interrupting,
It will end the joy of life.
Time will come and their children
Will be basking in the Spring Sun,
Just as if their rotting parents
Never rustled on the branches,
And the Sun didn’t warm their skin.
But on this gray Autumn morning
Leaves fall down from the branches
Making space for new arrivals
That will come to be next Spring.
They are tumbling, spinning slowly
T’wards the ground where death is waiting
Under same sky where for some time
They were rustling blissfully.
Morrow’ll bring abundant sunshine,
But the leaves won’t feel its warmness:
They’ll be raked and neatly packaged
For the fire to devour them.
Rain keeps weeping for the victims
That this world abandoned early,
Leaves are sobbing, falling slowly
In the puddles of bitter tears…
This will happen on the morrow,
When the rain its thirst will quench,
Not today, when leaves are destined
Their early grave to meet.
By Liana Margiva
Translated from Russian by Anatol Kardiukov