All along the Smolensk Road trees rise and rise and rise.
All along the Smolensk Road posts stand mid trees, mid trees.
Just above the Smolensk Road I think those are your eyes:
Two cold evening stars, my two blue destinies.
All along the Smolensk Road the snow slaps face, slaps face.
We are driven from homes because work can't wait, can't wait.
But had there been more force in the pull of your embrace,
A shorter road might have conveyed me through the night.
All along the Smolensk Road trees rise and rise and rise.
All along the Smolensk Road posts hum till dawn, till dawn.
Just above the Smolensk Road I think those are your eyes:
Two cold evening stars, two blue stars look down, look down.
Ж. Б.
По Смоленской дороге — леса, леса, леса.
По Смоленской дороге — столбы, столбы, столбы.
Над Смоленской дорогою, как твои глаза, —
две вечерних звезды — голубых моих судьбы.
По Смоленской дороге — метель в лицо, в лицо,
все нас из дому гонят дела, дела, дела.
Может, будь понадежнее рук твоих кольцо —
покороче б, наверно, дорога мне легла.
По Смоленской дороге — леса, леса, леса.
По Смоленской дороге — столбы гудят, гудят.
На дорогу Смоленскую, как твои глаза,
две холодных звезды голубых глядят, глядят.
«I love spring storms — the rain, the lightning — / When in the early weeks of May / Young thunder, playing and delighting, / Resounds and shatters in blue sky. Electric passion bursts and shimmers, / Rain sprinkles, sparkling dust flies on, / In air the pearl strands shine and gl...»
«There is a wistful charm, a tenderness, / Mysterious and soft, in autumn’s even: / The trees in weird and brilliant garments dress, / The gory leaves to whispered talk are given; / Above the sad and orphaned earth the skies / Lie veiled and bleak, the sun’s departure mourning, / And ...»
«In the brightness of autumn evenings / here is a touching, mysterious charm: / an ominous glitter, motley trees, / a light, languorous rustle of scarlet leaves, / a hazy, quiet blueness / across the sadly orphaned world / and, presaging gathering storms, / at times a gusty snap ...»
«We live, not sensing our own country beneath us, / ten steps away they evaporate, our speeches, but where enough meet for half-conversation, / the Kremlin mountain man’s our occupation. They’re like slimy worms, his fat fingers, / his words, as solid as weights of measure. In his cockro...»