This spring there is a change in everything.
More lively is the sparrows' riot.
I shall not even try to tell of it,
How bright my soul is and how quiet.
My thoughts and writings are quite different,
And from the choir's loud octaves singing
The mighty voice of earth is audible
Of liberated countries ringing.
The breath of spring across this land of ours
Wipes winter's marks from off its spaces
And washes off black rings that tears have made
Round red eyes of Slavonic faces.
The grass is waiting everywhere to burst.
And though in ancient Prague the alleys
Are silent, each more crooked than the rest,
They’ll burst in song soon, like the gullies.
From Czech, Moravian and Serbian,
By the soft hands of spring uplifted;
Tales tear away the sheet of lawlessness
And burst with buds where snow has drifted.
All will be dim in the mist of fairy-tales,
Like patterns on the wall that dazzle
In golden chambers where the Boyars lived
Or on the great church of St. Basil.
A dreamer and a thinker in the night,
Moscow is dearer than the world. Her dower
Is to be home and source of everything
With which the centuries will flower.
Bсе нынешней весной особое.
Живее воробьев шумиха.
Я даже выразить не пробую,
Как на душе светло и тихо.
Иначе думается, пишется,
И громкою октавой в хоре
Земной могучий голос слышится
Освобожденных территорий.
Bесеннее дыханье родины
Смывает след зимы с пространства
И черные от слез обводины
С заплаканных очей славянства.
Везде трава готова вылезти,
И улицы старинной праги
Молчат, одна другой извилистей,
Но заиграют, как овраги.
Сказанья Чехии, Моравии
И Сербии с весенней негой,
Сорвавши пелену бесправия,
Цветами выйдут из-под снега.
Все дымкой сказочной подернется,
Подобно завиткам по стенам
В боярской золоченой горнице
И на Василии блаженном.
Мечтателю и полуночнику
Москва милей всего на свете.
Он дома, у первоисточника
Всего, чем будет цвесть столетье.
«To rule troika and guitar / Means: to rule each over / Woman, means: with old beer / To circle overhead! / O handsome one! Halfbreed! / Who baptized you? In what font? / All the gypsy snowstorms / Opened up your vest / O the brave guitarist! / Eh, I fear - your strings and hollows...»
«That same youth, and these same holes, / And the same nights at the fire... / Sister of your own guitar / Is my divine, holy lyre. To circle souls just like a snowstorm — / One is the gift that us befalls. / Into my sleeping crib is lowered / This title: Stealer of souls! Breaking t...»
«I wrote on paled leaves of the fan / And on the board of slate / And on the river and sea sand, / On glass with a ring and on ice with skates — And on the trunks, a hundred winters old, / And in the end — that everyone would know / That you are loved! Loved! Loved! Loved! — / I s...»
«I desire no love and no honor: / They intoxicate — no falling away! / I don't even desire an apple / Tempting — from hawker's tray.. Something drags behind me like chain, / Soon the thunder will sound in the sky... How I desire — / Oh how I desire — / Very quietly simply to di»