THE SAWED BRUNCH
/blank verses/
Those verses first were written in Russian, and that's my own translation of them. Unfortunately, I'm not a professional translator and my English still isn't enough perfect…
Eugene Lakinsky
From the thousands of plants in a steppe
Just only one I'll pick -
A branch of a bitter wormwood.
Leafs on the branches are rustling.
In a silent orchard
I recollect the childhood.
The immortelle flower
On a table
In an empty vase.
The garden is overgrown by weeds,
The trees have withered
And soon
The steppe will stretch on a place
Where my house was.
The tree dies
Taking away on it's bark
Names of a people, who loved.
In my cellar there is
A wine
Of a wild grapes.
The wallpaper
With a flower design,
The strong medicine's smell -
That is all, that remained
Of a human being.
Let the beauty and smell
Of a sawed brunch
Come in your heart
And a warmth
Will give to your soul.
Sheding a tears to the fire,
I'm burning
My fathers notes.
The house's broken glasses
Like an eye
Of a snake...
A dandelion in a grass,
And a bush
Of a wild currant.
Wind in an orchard
Flowers of a cherry trees
Are rustling.
This year
So early
An autumn came.
The cold
Came to my house
Through the walls.
On an avenue of white houses
Chestnut trees
Are blooming.
So sad it is
To stroll about a park
Which no one will visit.
An old barn
Disappeared
In a celandine's brushwood.
Blooming of apple-tree
Like a woman’s
Heady scent.
Eugene B. Lakinsky, Odessa city, Ukraine