Holdor Volcano

Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov

Childhood


The cherry-trees bleed in sight.

Far away the whirls swirl around,

The cuckoo by the river side

Is lazy, not willing to count. 

The sky  is a pan and the sun

Is an egg to be fried in the heat.

To poplars and streams everyone

Is willing now to retreat. 

Mirages roam on the lawns,

The tractors drop anchors on grounds.

Gurrak now droningly moans

Silence is longing for sounds.



A motor-bike, raising dust,

Comes rattling along up there.

The cook calls all to repast

Beating the plate of plowshare. 

Clank! Clank! Clank! Clank!