TATITERA — Не жалею, не зову, не плачу

I don't regret, I don't call, I don't cry, Everything will pass like smoke from white apple trees. Seized by the gold of withering, I will no longer be young.

You won't beat so hard anymore, Heart touched by a chill, And the land of birch calico Won't lure me to wander barefoot.

Wandering spirit, you less and less Stir up the flame of the lips. O my lost freshness, The riot of eyes and the flood of feelings.

I've grown stingier in desires, My life — or did you only dream to me? As if in a ringing spring dawn I galloped on a pink horse.

We all, we all in this world are perishable, Quietly the copper of maple leaves pours down… Be forever blessed What came to blossom and to die.