By Mikhail Matusovsky

All night the nightingale was whistling warbles,
The town was mute, mute were houses all.
And all the night the white acacia's clusters
Were turning us to excitement from love.

The garden was all washed up by the spring rainstorms.
In the ravins water was so dark.
Oh God, how naive we were in that time all,
How we were happy and how young.

Years had passed, making us the grey-haired.
Where's the clearness of boughs thick?
Only the white blizzard and the cold winter
Are the reminder of past blossoming.

And while wind rages quite frenzy,
I feel in me with a power new:
The white acacia's clusters sweet-scented
Are just inimitable as my youth.


-
The popular russian romance

Lyudmila Purgina

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