I see gray clouds guarding the sky

like grim sentinels,

Cold April is sublime and without rancor,

The buds on the trees struggle to bloom,

Spring snow has taken its ride

on the turning of the roads.

Traffic and human voices buzzing like bees,

I hear across the street--

Happiness and despair flies into the air…,

I think of his birth, his life on this April morning,

The sun blots out our tears.

Moscow is far away from my country’s demise,

He sleeps in a mausoleum on Red Square,

One can hear the shouts of history,

The polished boots of honor guards lifting high,

Clicking proudly on flag-stone pavements.