Жёлтые листья перевод на английский

He stepped out of the building and stopped, as if he'd hit an invisible wall. The air, thick, cool, and damp, smelled of wet asphalt, rotten apples, and something elusively familiar—the scent of the end. The scent of autumn.
Andrey raised his head. The sky was covered in a thick sheet of gray clouds, from which a fine, persistent drizzle fell. But that wasn't the main thing. What mattered was them—the yellow leaves. They covered everything: the sidewalks, the flattened lawns, the roofs of parked cars. They swirled slowly in the air, as if reluctantly submitting to the inexorable pull of gravity. Bright yellow maple palms, crimson, jagged rowan leaves, pale lemon birches—all blended into one continuous, fiery carpet.
He walked, his steps becoming silent as he sank into this soft mass. The crunch beneath his feet was dull, muted by moisture. As a child, he'd loved this sound—ringing, dry, joyful. Back then, he'd deliberately sought out the driest piles of leaves to bury his head in, toss them into the air, and laugh until his mother shouted from the porch that all the trash would be in the house. Now, this crunch seemed to him like the sound of decay, a quiet reminder that everything passes.
He walked along a familiar route, past identical panel buildings, but today they seemed different to him—quiet, brooding. The windows reflected the leaden sky, and there was no life in them. Andrei felt like the last person on earth, lost in this yellow world.
Thoughts flowed lazily and oppressively, like clouds overhead. He remembered a conversation with his boss, full of ingrained phrases and indifferent glances. He remembered the perpetually flickering computer screen, endless tables and numbers that had nothing to do with him. He remembered a quiet evening in an empty apartment, where the only sound was the hum of the refrigerator.
Everything was gray and meaningless, like this autumn day. Everything, that is, except these leaves. Their yellow was so bright, so piercing, that at times it hurt his eyes. "A death cry," he thought. The trees, preparing for a long winter sleep, devoted all their last energy to this riot of color. They didn't die quietly; they went out with a blaze of fireworks.
He reached an old park on the outskirts of the neighborhood. There were even more leaves here. They covered the benches, which hadn't been wiped off in ages, and hung from the branches like wet garlands. Andrey sat down on one of the benches, oblivious to the dampness, and watched as a single maple leaf, detached from its branch, gently and swayed as it fell to the ground. It took a long time to fall, as if reluctant to part with the sky, but finally it settled softly among its fellows, becoming part of the shared blanket.
And suddenly, in this silence, under the whisper of the rain, it dawned on him. This beauty, this farewell brightness—it's not about death. It's about memory. About what was. About the warm summer sun that these leaves absorbed and now give back, even through the veil of autumn clouds. Each yellow leaf is a preserved piece of light.
He picked up one such leaf from the ground. It was heavy with water, perfectly smooth and cold. Andrey turned it over in his hands, examining the complex network of veins, like a map of an unknown country. This country had lived, breathed, caught the sun, and now its story had come to an end. But there was no tragedy in this. There was a pattern. There was a quiet, sad harmony.
Andrei stood up and walked back. The rain had almost stopped. His steps were still silent, but the heaviness in his soul had vanished, dissolved in this yellow splendor. He entered the entryway, shook the drops of water from his jacket, and went up to his apartment. Upon entering, he didn't turn on the light right away, but went to the window.
Against the darkening sky, a lone streetlamp cast a round yellow light onto the ground. And in this light, fallen leaves lay and swirled like gold coins. They were no longer a symbol of decay, but particles of that very light, accumulated over the summer, which continued to burn even into the night.
Andrei sighed. Tomorrow would be work again, numbers, gray faces. But now he knew that he only had to step outside, raise his head, or simply look at his feet, and he would see them again—yellow leaves. Silent guardians of the past summer and quiet messengers of the coming winter. And there was a strange, comforting truth to this.