Elegy

I will be sorry to leave you

one late autumn,

when the trees start to melt

near the coast in plain sight,

when you really want to say goodbye

under the first snow on the river -

and for a long, long time to decrease,

fade and fade into the distance.

Forgive me, life is a boring sound to me.

sadness is as dark as black soil.

we are through the lingering Fatherland

crawling in a blockade sled -

in the shadow of the cemetery garden,

growing into a blurry landscape,

where the grape leaves smolder,

reminiscent of a rusty beach.

I will be sorry to leave you,

when there are no more ships,

when you really want to call out

recently deceased people

when the darkened park embraces

ponds with a misty veil,

where the weeping willows sleep

over dead water.

I will be sorry to leave you

stand by the slow Neva,

look into the blackening ice,

how the stone lions look,

be silent with heavy lips,

breathe in the fluctuating haze

and line the Neva with crosses

Admiralty needle.