November autumn stands nearby,
The clouds will burst, the rain is due.
We’ll learn our lessons by and by—
My darling, wait, I’ll come to you.
I will return, but where, I don’t know,
Somewhere I’ll surely find my way.
And birds, too, fly wherever they go—
Will Russia wait for her rogue one day?
Moscow, you’ve become a stranger to me,
Pyatnitskaya Street is no longer mine.
The Ninth of May is not what it used to be,
And native lands have faded with time.
The files of memory still remain,
Buried beneath the dust of years.
They never found their place in life’s refrain,
And no one wants them—not even the gears.
осень под боком - перевод ИИ
© Copyright: Сем Крестовский, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126091501101
Свидетельство о публикации №126091501101
Рецензии