Отговорила роща золотая. English

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejgf64RGcCg

A golden grove is now gone and finished
With birches’ funny catkins and the juice.
And cranes, who sadly fly with strokes diminished,
Are trying not to spread around blues.

What to regret if everyone’s a vagrant,
Who will pass by, come back and leave again?
For them daydreaming cannabis is fragrant
And memory pale beams of  Moon retain.

I stand alone amid the flatland bared.
And cranes are drifted fluttered far away.
My thought’s about youth I blindly spared
With no regrets for past at night or day.

I don’t regret those years I spend so vainly.
I don’t regret a soul’s purple bloom.
Bonfires of the rowan burn ungainly
And bring instead of warmness sense of gloom.

The branches of wild ash won’t turn to ashes.
The yellowness of grass won’t make it dead.
Like drops of rain hit ground with the splashes,
I drop the words of sadness’ subtle thread.

And if the times that scatter by wind gusting
Collect them all in single compact waste,
It should be said with the conviction trusting:
A golden grove has lost its native chaste.