Aleksey Koltsov
Song

Cease thy song, nightingale,
Here before my window!
Fly away, nightingale,
To my village grove.
And there light on the window
Of my sweetheart-love.
Sing to her there a song
Of my anguish, pain.
Say I wither, I die,
Here away from my lass,
As in autumn cold rain
Dies the meadow grass.
Dark the face of the moon
Without her at night,
And the red sun at noon
Wanders low and cold.
Who will call me, caress?
Who will love as she?
On whose breast shall I rest
From men’s injury?
And with gladness whose words
Shall I rise to greet?
And whose song will my heart
Rise with joy to meet?
Why dost sing, nightingale,
At my window still?
Fly away, fly away,
To my sweetheart-love!

Translated by Eugene Mark Kayden