Bulat Okudzhava
The Battle Canvas

Fall of early twilight; flutes are playing, restive; evening ride proceeding.
On the finest horse, in a caftan blue and festive, emperor is leading.
Horse is color snow-white, hair is color raven, scarlet ammunition.
Eyes are color amber; wings are spread in mission — battle premonition.

Following the emperor generals are squiring, warriors committed,
Gloriously greeted, battle scars repeated, only not defeated.
Adjutants attendant, tireless contenders; epaulettes are glaring.
All of them have talent, all of them have splendor, all of them have daring.

Past claviers and voices are becoming fainter, sounds are slowly waning.
Just the measured pounding, flutes’ uneasy sounding, spiteful hopes remaining.
Smells of smoke and chimney are becoming weaker, smells of home and haven.
And the feet are touching and the eyes are watching only earth and heaven.

Translated by Evgenia Sarkisyants