“… Poor my forest, he completely choked …”

Біднесенький мій ліс, він зовсім задубів!
He was waiting for me and thinking about separation.
Already November sneaked due to oaks
and a grove removes a golden wig.

Sinite day like late cabbage.
It was raining, and then it was winter.
Poor my forest! – he lowered the wings.
There are no mushrooms, no matter how small.

Poor my forest, is it time to be?
Or maybe you’re still in the fall?
Reap the birds of the silver pen,
you will wear the leaves and you will steal the animals.

What is your pine scrape about?
The sun dropped an amber drop.
And somewhere gigglingly hemorrod the forest,
that I will not lose to you in the snow.

Everything in the winds will ring like a zaban.
The road will be – not there, nor from there.
And like a glass faded fog,
the first frost-frozen fell on the waist …

Lina Kostenko