Summer’s on the way,
do you feel it – on the way? –
The grove becomes swoony. The river slender.
In the orchards blossoms are falling...
The sky is lush. The days aren’t quite the same.
The distance is growing abundant. And beyond the
barnyards a raspberry bush’s eyelashes turn gray...
The distance is growing abundant.
On a clay bench an aged grandpa
sitting like a dream.
His grandson tousles his eyebrows.
The wind sways poppies, poppies and sycamore maples.
The son
sticks his shovel into the ground
and goes to the house. How warm it is!
In a week or so the rye-fields will really
begin to glisten beneath the clear sky.
We’ve survived wars and misfortune,
we’ve liberated the young land
and divided it up. The rest of it is still to be
divided – then it will all be done.
Silence. Someone in the area hears a commotion and rumble.
Someone is driving through the street. Silence.
In a week or so the earth will really
begin to glisten beneath the clear sky.
The neighboring village brought in electricity.
Isn’t it our turn? Grandpa shakes his head.
A well creaks behind the house.
The still standing timber
is trembling and dangling, look – it’s falling.
We’ll have an artesian well, we’ll survive!
Grandpa shakes his head.
And above the village a prankster-plane
nonchalantly outlines the plan with his wings.
A happy young mother comes out of the house,
asking: where’s my son?
A child with these hands, a child with these feet – what a lad!
For sure he’ll be Komsomol kid – don’t you think?
And now he is in her arms.
He’s forgotten grandpa, he’s forgotten it all,
half shutting his eyes he suckles her breast...
Summer is on the way.
1924