The golden grove dissuaded me,
 Speaking the merry language of the birches.
 And as the cranes fly passed in sadness
 They have no pity left for anyone.
 
 I’m standing on a barren plain.
 The wind is carrying the cranes away.
 I’m full of thoughts about my merry youth.
 I don’t regret a thing that’s past.
 
 I don’t regret the wasted years,
 Nor the lilac colour of my heart.
 Red rowan blazes on my garden fire,
 But now it cannot warm a soul.
 
 The rowan branches won’t burn up.
 The grass is yellowed but it isn’t dead.
 And, as the tree sheds leaves in silence,
 Just so I shed these words of sadness now.