Bulat Okudzhava
I’ve sung all my songs...

I’ve sung all my songs.
I’m out.
So don’t talk about it now.
Though, maybe, a line, or a sound,
has been left out somehow.

The wheels spin above and around it,
and though it can’t swing at one dash,
naive and quite simple-minded,
it’s eager to dazzle and flash.

There’s still room for hope, oh my dear,
spread out your nice little sails,
you’ are like a shell much too sheer
to sail through the city waves.

Wherever the waves cast you out
don’t call anybody for aid;
there’s no need to give an account,
keep sailing, do not be afraid.

You’ll be like the instant picture
of silver midnight and yard,
a boy with guitar as a feature
of neighbourhood
in Arbat.

Translated by Alec Vagapov