/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


In a celandine's brushwood.


Blooming of apple-tree

Like a womans

Heady scent.


Eugene B. Lakinsky, Odessa city, Ukraine