By the waterfalls of flaming days
Stone is gray, your wrinkles are deep,
Leaves of memory weigh on roots of the earth
Falling leaves — faces reflects
In rigid transparency of the autumn water.
And the falling pride condensed into the stone
Great achievements, search for immortality,
And in the dust turned the banner of greatness,
And the bones of fallen heroes decayed.
Into the salt became a cruel fate
By our mother-earth and grandchildren of Rod.
Leaves are whirling — it’s the souls of men,
So our ancestors had voiced the forest legends.
And I hear from them the sound of nightly wind,
Weeping birch and anthems of the past,
Rainbow of leaves, a rainbow of fates,
Fiery kolovrat in my heart wakes.
And by the green vault decorates the wood crown
A magical tracery of leaves and twigs,
Falling leaves among the dark trunks
Faces are hidden in the oaks shadows.
And I see from the faces our dead ancestors
Which are peering through the fi rmness of the memory,
Freedom and pride, contempt to death
Depth of knowledge of our prophetic grandfathers.
And by the waterfall of flaming days
Memory will return and become a part of me,
Visions of the past mixed with blood
With purple leaves, woven of pain.
And by the forests power of heavenly Rod
And by the fury of Russian kind
Locks of oblivion on the exploits of the past
Cracked and blazed by the lives of enemies.
Like falling leaves, my memory and my dream
Dusk frost, post-mortem cold,
Sparks of wisdom hover in the mist
Native song — the wrinkles in the crust.
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