Bulat Okudzhava
My portrait drawn in pencil

The squeaking pencils softly roll
for peace and quiet of my soul.
They squeak incessantly, with care,
but give a cry they do not dare.

My soul is burning , getting hot,
but what’s a pencil worth? Yes, what?
Abiding by the rule
it will tranquil my soul.

...One final stroke, — and there it is:
my drawn image, if you please.
I’ve been immortalized...
but I can’t fall and rise;

my temples look unhealthy, dry,
although my forehead is quite high,
I stare with indifference
ahead into the distance..

What shall I call this masterpiece ?
«The Teacher», «Worker» or «Artiste» ?
«Numb Witness of the Era?» —
I’m not a rude believer.

I’m mortal. I am all aflame
while it’s eternal in the frame,
a prize winner, it is...
...but it has got no tears.

Translated by Alec Vagapov