Похоронят, зароют глубоко,
They will bury us deep, once we’re dead,
And the grass will then cover the mound,
And we’ll hear: somewhere high, overhead,
A passing shower will water the ground.
From then on, we’ll seek nothing at all,
Waking up from a dream, we will reason:
If it’s quiet outside – it’s the fall,
If it’s turbulent – spring is in season.
It’s so nice that our drowsy sensations
Won’t troubled by grief and delight,
Separation and love’s complications
Cannot break, through the coffin, inside.
It’s so homely, we’ve found what we sought;
Here, one day, we may just comprehend
How a senseless life differs somewhat
From a sensible one for a man.
October 18, 1915