Леонидъ Кагановъ - Это осень

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Leonid Kaganov - This is autumn

This is a must, or it isn’t – like an autumn cicada I’m counting miles after miles over the early snow,
And the fragments of winds from a desert are driven deep into sleeves, and the leaves
Turn into fragile hay, and the grass bends its knee, and a head drops down to the ground.

This is autumn, or maybe it isn’t – maples will plead the sky for a tub of water – to be rewarded,
To wash off the annoying leaves, and to spread their hands in the air,
And to wash up the forests and gardens and boulevards with drafts.

This is memory, or maybe it isn’t – this is life short of time to be able to hurt us with its prickly tail, and a house
Catching the sky with its eaves, and a vase, and some slices of bread.
This is shadow and lilacs and chickadees behind the dusty window.

And it’s summer somewhere still – she always has tickets for tram on a parallel route.
Give up daydreams, the rails never meet, neither do carriage and cruiser.
Only Celsius waves to Kelvin in a rather casual way.

Phones are ringing like bells, and the world all encircled with neon is beating against the echoing space.
In the beams of the mountains electric trains run along boulevards, it is autumn, and just out of habit
An autumn bonfire glows like autumn church lamp all along the alley and garden.
This is autumn.

1996