Country winter

My village

Siberian villages, small,
How many of you have scattered across Russia?
You are standing in circles from the snow
And the smoke from the Russian stove.
Somewhere out there, beyond the wide reaches,
In the heart the sounds of a dashing accordion,
There it stands under the big birches,
An old house, father's, dear.
Early in the morning to my dear village,
I will return to my cornflower blue world
I will see my beloved birch again,
Father's house that is so sweet to the heart.


L.A. Mezentseva