TWENTY EIGHT

On the fall grains — there’s a tabor
Of partridges. And the November
Blizzard bares its teeth.
Not yet finished by frost,
Leaves from branches fall to ground,
Crashing off…
They are breaking like fine china,
Being covered by the bitchy
Winter’s snows.
Turned gray, the filthy earth
Is freezing in the field
With suffering.

Before saying a final goodbye —
Only two steps with the last sigh
And unsteady hands.
Black singed bristled
Huge paws of soot and smoke
Stifle clouds above.
I have no strength, want to give in,
Stumble and to fall asleep,
And keep lying down with foliage
Evermore.

The West marches along the East.
Cruel and cold-blooded foe
Is advancing, bastard.
And between them there is
My hungry and depleted
Assault squad.
And, salted with sweat,
We are crawling out to work
With all swear words.
The wind whistles past the ears,
Or the bullet looks for me —
On my hair, there’s blood.

Before saying a final goodbye —
Only two steps with the last sigh,
How can I resist?
The West presses against the neck,
And has started direct fire
Against all of us.
But if we’re giving in right now,
Will the sun then rise again?
Don't break! Do breathe! And hold on…

The field arches its back.
On it as a thick snowslide
Are sprawling…
Either worms or even devils,
Or the death’s active agents
Are approaching…
Squeezing yellow shards of leaves
And the rest of iron will
In the hands,

Praying to the Lord and leaders,
We await them in the dens,
Biting our lips.
And in my uncloudy childhood,
In the far-away kingdom —
There’re Mommy's hands.
Kvass, football and movie tickets…
Summer comes to former youths.
What have you become?
No names, no fates, no faces…
People fall down in winter
With the advent of the snowy evil war.

No names, no fates, no faces…
People fall down in winter
With the advent of the snowy evil war.

On the fall grains — there’s a tabor
Of partridges. And the November
Blizzard bares its teeth.
Not yet finished by frost,
Leaves from branches fall to ground,
Crashing off…
They are breaking like fine china,
Being covered by the bitchy
Winter’s snows.
Turned gray, the filthy earth
Is freezing in the field
With suffering.

Freezing quietly in the field
With suffering.
Freezing quietly in the field
With suffering.

Freezing quietly in the field…