Oh. Let the August be the month of swallows and the roofs, And driven by the habit from the yore.
On airport hills (in Pulkovo) it scatters blossoms of the reeds,
And opens every shutter with a thunder.

Will come the time for all my scents to vanish, like Atlanta fell.
And neither years passed by, nor distance from an eye to thords, or mounds, or folias do matter
For the feel we scare up.
(We probably had worked in gloves to stash it)

All sleuths were chasing after it will find no fingerprints,
Unfortunately, feeling does not leave mark.

So what I think - when comes to heart, which keeps these discrete links to nothing -
Forgiveness is apology and excuse
((Especially) in context of the end of summer)

But once a year exactly you will be warmed up with birch tree, not Calluma,
And North side be familiar to you -
When me appears as though in mind -
You'll catch a raging wind beyond the window,
bidding a farewell to that summer.


оригинал. 1964