In warmth, the evil grief is blossoming, turning green,
as if it were warmed by the vernal sun.
The tears have thawed out and are streaming forth like a creek.
Over there, over the sepulchral, loose mound,
A birch tree is standing and growing numb in the snow.

There will be a time, when the cold will seep down into the soul,
the cold will seep down into the soul, and grief will freeze,
as if it were standing still.
And there, over the little grave,
Spring will be in the air, the birch tree will wake up, and in fresh leaves
Will be dressed the long meshes of branches,
And children will run down with lilac flowers.
And silently will gather the sepulchral shadows,
to listen to the voices of carefree children.