Have you forgotten village, lost in the swamps
forested province, where scarecrows in their gardens
he has never kept - not those where cereals,
and expensive, too, but all the causeway gullies.
Baba Nastya, go, dead, Pesterev alive and hardly,
but as alive, drunk sitting in the basement,
or gets on the back of our bed something,
they say, wicket, not the gate.
In winter, there is chopping wood and sit on turnips,
and the star blink of smoke in the frosty sky.
And not in calico in bride window, dust and holiday
but the empty space, where we loved.