Я люблю, когда шумят березы, Когда листья падают...

I love when birch trees make a noise
When leaves fall from birches.
I listen - and tears come
On the eyes, weaned from tears.

Everything will wake up involuntarily,
It will respond in the heart and in the blood.
It will become somehow joyful and painful
Like someone whispers about love.

Only more often prose wins,
As if the wind of gloomy days will blow.
After all, the same birch rustles
Over the grave of my mother.

In a war, a father was killed by a bullet,
And in our village near the fences
With the wind and rain rustled like a beehive
Here is the same yellow leaf fall ...

My Russia, I love your birch trees!
From the first years I lived and grew up with them.
That's why tears come
On the eyes, weaned from tears ... (Nikolai Rubtsov)