Oh, night garden, mysterious organ,
Forest of long pipes, refuge of cellos!
Oh, night garden, sorrowful caravan
Of mute oaks and motionless firs!
All day long it tossed and roared.
The oak was a battle, and the poplar — an upheaval.
A hundred thousand leaves, like a hundred thousand bodies,
Intertwined in the autumn air.
Iron August in long boots
Stood in the distance with a big plate of game.
And shots thundered over the meadows,
And little bird bodies flashed through the air.
And the garden fell silent, and the moon suddenly came out,
Dozens of long shadows lay down below,
And crowds of lindens raised their hands,
Hiding the birds under the clumps of leaves.
Oh, night garden, oh, poor night garden,
Oh, creatures fallen asleep for long!
Oh, flaring right overhead,
The instant flame of a splinter of a star!
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