Don’t believe in war, my boy,
don’t believe, it’s quite depressing,
it’s as depressing, boy,
as a pair of boots that pinch.
Those swift romantic steeds of yours,
they are good for nothing here;
you’re as exposed as an open palm,
and the bullets’ only target.
Не верь войне, мальчишка,
не верь: она грустна.
Она грустна, мальчишка,
как сапоги, тесна.
Твои лихие кони
смогут ничего:
ты весь — как на ладони,
все пули — в одного.
«As a child, I liked big, / Honey-scented meadows, / Groves, dry grass, / And in the grass, bovine horns. Every wayside shrub shouted / To me: “I’m playing with you, / Pass me by carefully / And you shall know who I am!” Only the savage autumn wind, / Howling, would stop playing...»
«I loved the great meadows / and their honey scent / and clumps of trees, and dry grass / and bull’s horns in the grass. Every dusty bush along the road / shouted, “I’m playing with you! / Walk around me, watch out, / and you’ll see who I really am!” Only the fierce autumn win...»
«I remember an ancient artists’ prayer: / Keep us, Lord, from students Who push our wretched genius / toward the blasphemy of new revelations. Honest and open enemies we can deal with, / but this kind hangs in our footsteps And smiles, and laughs, as we fight — until / Peter forswears,...»
«I keep in memory the masters` ancient prayer: / Please, Lord, take us away from those who care / If our poor genius` decisions / Blasphemously were searching for new visions. We can accept a foe who doesn`t fake / But these are wondering of every step we take / They are so glad in struggl...»