Bulat Okudzhava
The music of the soul is ever fainter...

The music of the soul is ever fainter,
the music of the attack is ever more resonant.
But don’t hasten (to comment) on that:
so as not to be deceived in the darkness,
that the music of the attack is more resonant,
and the music of the soul ever fainter.

the louder is the music of the attacks,
the sweeter is the honey of the lights of home.
And this was only that way
in my yesterday’s wanderings:
the sweeter the honey of the lights of home,
the louder the music of the attacks.

From out of the depths of years gone by
more sure than ever before,
the more resonant the music of victories,
the more bitter is every loss,
the surer than ever before,
from the depths of years gone by.

And this is all in our blood,
even though we were not taught it:
the more sublime the music of love,
the louder is the music of grief,
the louder is the music of grief,
the more pure is the music of love. 

Translated by Gerald S. Smith