At the abandoned shrine,
only the wind visits,
flying by, playing,
drinking in the cast iron crosses,
slightly sticking out from under the snow,
with the expression of forgotten names.
A little further away, under the snow,
the kurgan reddens with bricks,
and the yellowing plaster,
the yellow heap is visible somewhere.
There is no temple, and no houses - the bent children,
Only one fence right there
covers the grave.
Quietly surrounding. A distant forest,
silently watching from behind the field,
not noticing the movement and
no one is breathing anywhere.
Dead, dead everything,
Was there ever anything, ever?
Neither the wind nor the grave fence will tell you.
The sky is gray, only the clouds, crawling from somewhere,
pressing down on the snow,
piled up in a heap.
Do you hear, from afar, something cawing like that?
It's a crow, old, black,
frosting its feathers,
moving quietly over the slope,
lifting its wings with weight.
At the abandoned shrine,
Only the wind visits,
caressing with hopelessness,
the lace of cast iron crosses.
