There is your spring,
left behind across the wilderness,
fresh violets
are dropping from the heaven
on your ancestors' graves,
you are lost
in their blue vortex,
blue as the tundra, claiming, -
you know the nature
of your ancestors' soul.

Russians are crazy
for straight vodka,
and for sentimental poems,
those two things
keep their spirit alive,
sunstroke touches your window
with its glossy silence,
reminding you of your spring,
lost in the freshness
of blue violets.