A golden grove has ceased at last its chatter
In a merry accent of its birches' tongue.
Afar, a flight of cranes, dejected, flutter,
No more lamenting over anyone.
Who to lament for? In this world, we're strangers:
Go by, come in and leave the house anon.
The gone are summoned up by but a hemp-close
And a harvest moon above a bluish pond.
I'm all alone amid a barren flatland.
A gust of wind is carrying cranes away.
It is my joyful youth that I'm intent on,
But nothing in the gone do I bewail.
I don't feel sorry for the years being squandered,
Or for a lilac thriving of my soul.
A fire of rowan berries, in the courtyard,
Is burning red albeit unable to warm.
The rowan berry clusters will not scorch, and
The grass won't perish from the yellow dry.
Like trees are slowly shedding their foliage,
So am I shedding doleful words of mine.
And if the time, when sweeping with an airflow,
Should grab them all in one unwanted lump,
Then say as follows... that a golden birch grove
Has ceased its chatter in a lovely tongue.