Tomsk poplars

Gray poplars,
in a magical glow,
branches-hands stretched up.
Admire you, I, at a distance,
as if with you, we recently divorced.

You are no longer there, you were then cut down,
saying that it is necessary for
so that people live calmly,
and not afraid, in the storm, nothing.

After all, you dropped branches from gusts of wind,
killed a girl, judge by conscience,
who hid under you,
from bad weather, in a terrible thunderstorm.

And for some reason I feel sorry for you
can not hear the smell of the kidneys, in the spring.
When the sun warms up hot,
suddenly, I remember you, and it hurts me.