Spring has assaulted every boulder —
The topsoil bursts with sprouting seeds,
Only my son's steadfast toy soldier
Is doomed to his heroic deeds.
A joyless master somehow happened
To join this set of tiny parts...
Ask the toy soldier: Are you happy?
And he will fire at your heart.
As fashions, moods and hopes are swinging
With every year that comes and goes,
People are laughing, crying, singing,
While he keeps waiting for his foes.
His muscles tense, his senses heightened:
He'll fight before he's torn apart!..
Ask the toy soldier: Are you frightened?
And he will fire at your heart.
He sees our buzzing busy static
As just a stretch from harm to harm.
His sorry little automatic
Has merged forever with his arm.
No peace for my unwilling buffer
And catalyst of coming hurt...
Ask the toy soldier: Do you suffer?
And he will fire at your heart.
Земля гудит под соловьями,
Под майским нежится дождём,
А вот солдатик оловянный
На вечный подвиг осуждён.
Его, наверно, грустный мастер
Пустил по свету, невзлюбя.
Спроси солдатика: «Ты счастлив?»
И он прицелится в тебя.
И в смене праздников и буден,
В нестройном шествии веков
Смеются люди, плачут люди,
А он всё ждёт своих врагов.
Он ждёт упрямо и пристрастно,
когда накинутся, трубя…
Спроси его: «Тебе не страшно?»
И он прицелится в тебя.
Живёт солдатик оловянный
Предвестником больших разлук,
И автоматик окаянный
Боится выпустить из рук.
Живёт защитник мой, невольно
Сигнал к сраженью торопя.
Спроси его: «Тебе не больно?»
И он прицелится в тебя.
«Who didn't build homes with his hand / Does not merit the land. Who the homes did not build / The earth will not be: / Ash — Straw... I did not build the home.»
«Cradle, that is wound up in red! / Cradle, that is rocked by the rabble! / Soldiers' thunder — by the evening — past the temples.. / And beautiful grows up the kid. With the milk of Ryazan's wet nurse / He sucked in inheritance's goods: / Flag — and the tri-unity of God. / Russ...»
«I don't disturb, I do not sing / With a woman's poison. Hand / That is loyal I give to you — / Right one, that will hold the pen. That, with which I form the cross / In the beauty of the night. / That, with which the things that God / Did command to me I write. My left hand is daring...»
«Out on horseback in the stillness. / Hooves resounding in the snow. / Only crows in dusty shrillness / Cackled in the meadow’s glow. Held by unseen fable’s rapture, / Forest slept beneath the drifts. / There in kerchief’s frozen capture / Pine displayed her snowy shifts. Crone-li...»