The sounds of quiet voices beloved and tender… Ivan Turgenev
1
A cool morning, faceless sun, Wind threading through the paper clouds, Leaves shimmering with dawn's bright gleams And clapping with their dampened palms.
Among themselves they rustle, half-afraid, Share dreams before the day's oblivion, As though disturbed by visions of the future, Shadow approaching—autumn's sorrows.
2
Waves, and above the lake the sun's radiance, Boundless wind's quiet exhalation. How distant still the mountain ridges loom! And—solitary soars the peregrine.
The heavenly air's transparent distances, However far the eye may stretch—peaks glow crimson. Thoughts purified—no longer dark, Troubled musings fade away.
Withered leaves, wind-driven onward— Thus endless sounds their desperation! All that we loved rushed swiftly past— An unrepeatable memory.
Currents above the lake's cool air, On mountain passes, snow's thin traces. The quiet echoes of beloved voice. Tender echoes of a gentle tone!
A shadow lonely o'er the bright hues gleaming, In royal white of solemn raiment. Through distant, dispassionate sounds resounding— I hear your voice with Heaven's blending.
3
A misty morning, hoary morning. Birds have fallen silent for all eternity. The sky hangs low above dark waters. Milky banks and gelid rivers.
Transparent grasses move in silence, Flowers drooped, beaten by fine rain. As though an ancient, bottomless sorrow, Something forgotten in the soul remains.
Spreads cold and delicate powder, Warming not with cozy deception, As if not autumn—winter's morning: Soft mist, and soundless, soundless mist.
A misty morning. Snowy field. How not recall Ivan Turgenev here. From youth a song familiar to the pain, The sad reflections of Russia's genius.
A song yearning for the God now lost, That thus forever remained uncomforted. On the long road, the desolate road To gentle autumn, autumn weak and worn.
A misty morning, hoary morning. Birds have fallen silent for all eternity. The sky hangs heavy with dark water. Milky rivers, gelid banks…
