Bulat Okudzhava
Ballad about Don Quixotes

By the Moscow River, in Gluboki Street,
Dulcineas peer from windows,
waiting for their Don Quixotes to return
from work,
and from bubbling barley
they compose soups on a blue flame.
Time’s aged them slightly — cares weigh on their eyelids, but...
the Don Quixotes are coming.
Step by step they walk up
to their floors, their attics,
and their heels thud on the stairs
and doorbells sound like nightingales.
Welcome them, Dulcinea!
He enters now with tired step
holding a bunch of lily-of-the-valley,
clad in no armor, carrying no sword,
wearing a plain working jacket.
Dulcinea,
do you remember your Don Quixote
of yesteryears?
Dulcinea,
do you remember the infantry
as it went off, destination unknown,
where, at any moment,
death will meet them on the way,
a bullet obliquely strike
a temple,
and its droning voice be heard no more.
The panoply of knighthood is all in the museums:
museums attach increasing value on swords,
but
stick a grenade in your belt, hold your rifle atilt,
and
“Don’t weep, Dulcinea, I’ll be back!”

...Yes, there are Don Quixotes still alive!
In any crowd I brush against their hands.
Yes, at dawn I hear
boots thudding on the riverside.
Yes, they gaze from windows,
yes, they watch
the blue glow of unexpected evening
above the town.
In Gluboki Street,
as in centuries past,
Dulcineas
yearn for
a lover’s tryst.

Translated by George Reavey