June would be clammy, January crisp;
and concrete solid, sand unstable.
For there was order. Real order.
People got up and went to work.
And then they watched The Happy FeIlas
at cinemas. For there was order.
In pedigrees and in parades,
political police, and apparatus,
even in parodies — there was order.
People made fun, and were afraid,
only of those they were supposed to,
for there was order, real order.
An order of the bent and bashed.
In hours, in minutes, and in seconds,
in years as well, there was real order.
It would have gone on without end,
but then a certain person fell,
and all this order went to hell.
Июнь был зноен. Январь был зябок.
Бетон был прочен. Песок был зыбок.
Порядок был. Большой порядок.
С утра вставали на работу.
Потом «Веселые ребята»
в кино смотрели. Был порядок.
Он был в породах и парадах,
и в органах, и в аппаратах,
в пародиях — и то порядок.
Над кем не надо — не смеялись,
кого положено — боялись.
Порядок был — большой порядок.
Порядок поротых и гнутых,
в часах, секундах и минутах,
в годах — везде большой порядок.
Он длился б век и вечность длился,
но некий человек свалился,
и весь порядок — развалился.
«That voice, with great quietude arguing, / Had a victory over her. / In me still, like song or woe, / Is last winter before the war. She was whiter than Smolny Cathedral / More mysterious than summer garden at noon / We didn't know that in parting sadness / We'd be looking back soon.»
«To say goodbye we don't know — / It's already nearing night, / We are walking shoulder to shoulder, / You are pensive and I am quiet We'll walk into church, we'll witness / The singing, the wedding, the cross, / Not seeing each other, we'll exit.... / Why are things not working for us...»
«You won't hear about him any longer, / You won't hear about him in the wind, / In the mournful fire-consumed Poland / His grave you will not find. May your spirit be still and peaceful, / There will be no losses now: / He is new warrior of God's army, / Do not be about him in sorrow. I...»
«Did for this, and for this only, / In my arms I carry you, / Did for this the strength of will flash / In your gorgeous eyes of blue? Tall and elegant you've grown, / You sang songs, Madeira drank, / To the far-off Anatolia / You have driven your mine tank. On the Malahov's kurgan / ...»