"В этом парке стоит тишина"
(Вадим Шефнер).
Quiet park's awaiting winter
And the branches at sunset are sable,
Like someone’s unreadable letter,
Like someone's handwriting that is unstable.
Autumn took leaves from the branches,
But in its merciful deeds
It gave writing to maples and birches
In exchange for the voices of leaves.
But this crux is obscure to our minds,
This connection with us is bad.
What the ancient ligature hides
Is an alphabet of unknown land.
Maybe autumn like a mournful mother
She sends comfort to someone in needs.
Only those can this letter recover
Who won’t hear the voice of spring leaves.