Lasting winters, summertime — they shall never flow together:
They have different traditions; they don’t look the same at all.
For a reason life has paved two long roads: this one, that one,
That one gets your feet exhausted, this one agitates your soul.
Woman in a window frame, in a shade of rosy color,
Says that tears of separation are impossible to heal,
For ahead of her, again, are two roads: this one, that one,
That one beautiful but fruitless, this one probably for real.
Bang your head against a brick — there will be no truer answer,
And no matter if our passions lead to happiness or loss,
All the same, we face ahead two old roads: this one, that one,
And forever we shall need them, like we need our sky and earth.
Не сольются никогда зимы долгие и лета:
У них разные привычки и совсем несхожий вид.
Не случайны на земле две дороги — та и эта,
Та натруживает ноги, эта душу бередит.
Эта женщина в окне в платье розового цвета
Утверждает, что в разлуке невозможно жить без слез,
Потому что перед ней две дороги — та и эта,
Та прекрасна, но напрасна, эта, видимо, всерьез.
Хоть разбейся, хоть умри — не найти верней ответа,
И куда бы наши страсти нас с тобой не завели,
Неизменно впереди две дороги — та и эта,
Без которых невозможно, как без неба и земли.
«Just because the girl Nastas’ya / ran out barefoot in the rain / to provide another's pleasure / vodka for the aged man she deserved a lovely god / in a palace drenched with sun / elegant and just and good / in a robe of old gold spun. But to him where drunkards snore / where all r...»
«Her tears affected none — / the tears she had not shed. / Against an ostrich fan / her pallid cheek she laid. Admirers in the stalls / screwed up a handkerchief: / where crimson curtain palls / her hands brought white relief. They knew how warm the jewel in / her imitation ring / ...»
«Click. The bullet was engaged. / The wild candle settled down. / Oh how sorely he had aged. / How long all this had gone on. Frontiers of old age fell as / he remembered far off days — / his old regimental colours / all the glitter, all the noise. Old age brings no happiness. / He ...»
«Fifteen boys — maybe more / maybe less than fifteen / with frightened voices / said to me: / "Let's go to the cinema or the museum of Fine arts." / I answered them more or less as follows: / "I haven’t got the time." / Fifteen boys gave me snowdrops / Fifteen boys with broken voi...»