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.
«Wait for me, I will return. / Wait for all you’re worth. / Wait, when sulphurous rains they burn / Snuffing out all mirth, / Wait, as drifting snow it drops, / Wait, when heat’s too much. / Wait, when wait for others stops, / Past has lost its clutch. / Wait, when from that dista...»
«Wait for me, and I'll be back, / Should you wait me strong. / Wait for me when sky is black / And the sun has gone, Wait for me when it is cold, / And when it is hot, / Wait for me when others don't, / 'Cause they just forgot. Wait in case you don't receive / Letters from the front, ...»
«Wait for me, I'l be back / Wait with all your strength / Wait when the rains of sorrow / Cover the skies. / Wait when snow is freezing, / Wait when the sun is burning. / Wait, when no one else is waiting any more, / Even if you forget the past, full of memories / Even if you don't he...»
«For a hundred days grenades have been piercing / The bloodstained Malakhov hill.1 / And the red-haired British soldiers / Are storming it, marching to a harsh drum’s beat. And the fortress, Petropavlovsk-on-Kamchatka, / Is submerged in peaceful, normal sleep. / A lieutenant with a limp,...»