Bulat Okudzhava
In a bottle old and brown...

In a bottle old and brown
From the dark imported beer
Of a rose the scarlet crown
Bloomed with poise and graceful cheer.
I was writing of the past,
Slowly letting it unravel,
From the first page to the last
Making my uncertain travel.

One is telling as he’s willing,
One is willing what he’s feeling,
As he’s feeling so he’s telling,
Not attempting to indulge.
Nature wished so for its reasons,
Just what for — is not our business,
Why — is not for us to judge.

Faraway was colored blue,
Fantasy was not a worry,
And from my own life I drew,
Thread by thread, the fiction story;
Sent my heroes on their way,
Of the history inquired,
And an adjutant retired
I at times began to play.

One is telling as he’s willing,
One is willing what he’s feeling,
As he’s feeling so he’s telling,
Not attempting to indulge.
Nature wished so for its reasons,
Just what for — is not our business,
Why — is not for us to judge.

Fiction isn’t a deceit;
Vision, not a finished matter;
Let me keep on writing it
To the very final letter.
And before the roses die,
Which inside the bottle grow,
Let me cry the words that lie
Piggy-banked since long ago.

One is telling as he’s willing,
One is willing what he’s feeling,
As he’s feeling so he’s telling,
Not attempting to indulge.
Nature wished so for its reasons,
Just what for — is not our business,
Why — is not for us to judge.

Translated by Evgenia Sarkisyants