Most of this house’s walls remain, still standing in their place,
The roof has collapsed, and inside it the trees have grown.
In winter at dusk, if you look from above this space,
You’ll see how time retreats, deceived, pushed gently aside —

And there on the snow the shadows start to trace;
The house isn’t just alive — it’s cozy, not alone,
Gold light within the window, curtains drift with grace,
And when it darkens—everyone just goes to sleep at night.

Of course, night falls; of course, the truth prevails again;
Of course, not for long can the remaining brickwork stay
To play the role of what it used to be —
Before explosions, before war's relentless blow,

Yet still, in winter dusk, a quiet joy remains,
And what’s seen only from above — well, that is okay,
The world is tucked in by a blanket of rosy sea,
And in the stubborn house’s shadow, dreams take root and grow.

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Thanks to Leah Borovoi for improving the text.