in the prime of fall

The golden birch-tree grove has fallen silent it's merry chatter having stopped afore, the cranes up there flying over, sullen, have nobody to pity any more. Whom should they pity? Each is just a trotter. One comes and goes and leaves for good again. The moon and hempen bush above the water remember all those perished, filled with pain. I'm standing on the plain all on my own, the cranes, the wind is taking them away, I think about my boyhood which has flown, and I do not regret my bygones anyway. I don't regret the days that I discarded, I don't feel sorry for the lilac of my soul. The purple rowan burning in the garden can't warm and comfort anyone at all. The rowan will maintain its coloration. The grass exposed to heat will not decease, I drop my words of sorrow and vexation the way a tree drops quietly its leaves. And if some day the wind of time intended to rake them all up in a useless roll... You ought to say: the golden grove has ended it's lovely chatter in the prime of fall.