By Aleksey Porvin 2

People roam the stalks
searching for new life there,
and each just talks and talks —
as if all is prepared:

among them all the chatter
is an old dirty wall
(no wallpaper) — dusty litter —
still glued before the fall.

Rolled – up is a stalk
whose creaking sound is white,
as if it wished to mock,
were march woods in the light.

Yet nothing can renew
a homestead been undone.
(Better if the glue
were fiery setting sun.)

Translated from the Russian by Leo Yankevich.