В старой, пахнущей хвоей, родительской спальне Сизый ветер,...

In the old, smelling pine needles,

parental bedroom

The blue wind, waking up, then rustled, then subsided.
I'm from here from the forest

I sent you a message

In the most gentle, snowy poems.
I wrote a letter to you

under the rainbow arch,

(all the colors of its spectrum were lit by me).
And for you I pasted

sun red stamp

On the green envelope of spring.

In your smoky city, -

I ask you not to be angry

If a little old-fashioned

and funny with happiness,

This early morning

will knock on your window

In a black tunic

rook postman.


* * *

... You say that you love the forest very much
And the smell of pine trees, spicy and exciting,
And in confirmation of this

are you taking a bath

From an elegant pine extract.
And at this time, at this very time
On sloping taiga hills,
Thinking about something of their own,

sigh softly

Blue violins of pines.
On the clouds, on the low and shaggy
From the starry labyrinth

to the taiga

The wind comes - the wise Stradivarius,
And the violins of the forest begin to sing ...
Their thin voice, nervous and aching,
Rides over a tortured planet
Over copper

over haughty jazz

Steel structures, smoky cities.

... We are going with you to the taiga
On spotted sloping hills ...
You sing,

but they are silent in confusion

Blue violins of pines.

You say that you love the forest very much ...