The street runs uphill to the river,
And I go down to her leisurely--
Hydrangea flower in one hand,
In the other a bag of wine, a baguette, a plum.
The last block, the stairs, downstairs
The wave rustles, caressing the ancient shore,
The willow tree sheds a big tear,
September brings thoughts of loss.
Behind me is an old house
He can't stop looking at the river,
And the panes of the windows seem like water,
Unmovable since the nineteenth century.
It's also hard for me to look away
From the melting play of water and light,
Presented as a gift at the end of the journey,
Like a benevolent fall omen.
There is no waterfront here, but there is sand,
Which is accessed by dry slabs.
I'm going down the rocks at an oblique angle
To the trunk of a long fallen rakita tree.
So that's it - a well-deserved limit,
I'll get the wine, I'll listen to the tea
And the splash of the wave - away from the noisy business,
And reap when the rook docks here....