Into the house he came at last
Where she’d dreamed of him as years came and passed,
Where for an age he’d yearned to be
For she had so decided, and so had he.
I swear this must’ve been love indeed,
Take a look: you will recognize its deed.
But listen, go call on the Heaven above —
Still how can someone make any sense of love?
The rain came late and nudged the door.
And she kept her silence, and he said no more,
And he turned his back to leave for the best,
And she didn’t come after to fall on his chest.
I can swear this must’ve been love indeed,
Take a look: you will recognize its deed.
But listen, go call on the Heaven above —
Still how can someone make any sense of love?
Он, наконец, явился в дом,
где она сто лет мечтала о нем,
куда он сам сто лет спешил,
ведь она так решила, и он решил.
Клянусь, что это любовь была,
посмотри — ведь это ее дела.
Но знаешь, хоть Бога к себе призови,
разве можно понять что-нибудь в любви?
И поздний дождь в окно стучал,
и она молчала, и он молчал.
И он повернулся, чтобы уйти,
и она не припала к его груди.
Я клянусь, что это любовь была,
посмотри: ведь это ее дела.
Но знаешь, хоть Бога к себе призови,
разве можно понять что-нибудь в любви?
«We live without feeling the country beneath us, / our speech at ten paces inaudible, and where there are enough for half a conversation / the name of the Kremlin mountaineer is dropped. His thick fingers are fatty like worms, / but his words are as true as pound weights. his cockroach whisk...»
«We live without feeling our country’s pulse, / We can’t hear ourselves, no one hears us, / If a word is uttered by chance, / Kremlin highlander is remembered at once. / Like worms his thick fingers are fat, / His words like pound weights are correct, / His cockroach moustache is full...»
«We live, not sensing our own country beneath us, / Ten steps away they dissolve, our speeches, / But where enough meet for half-conversation, / The Kremlin hillbilly is our preoccupation. / They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers, / His words, as solid as weights of measure. / In his...»
«We live, deaf to the land beneath us, / Ten steps away no one hears our speeches, / All we hear is the Kremlin mountaineer, / The murderer and peasant-slayer. / His fingers are fat as grubs / And the words, final as lead weights, fall from his lips, / His cockroach whiskers leer / And ...»