Bulat Okudzhava
The Little Song About Night Moscow

Why are you so sad, my good artist —
my good painter, musician or bard?
To which one of the tempests, the wildest,
had you spent all your talent and heart?

And on which one of parts of the road
had you lost all your wretched cooper coins?
You were going to be a god’s prophet,
but have come with a debt in a gross

Like the echo of fair times, passed here,
like remembrance of hope of old —
or one street keeps your profile, so clear,
or another — your tread, so bold.

So, pay from still-left of the ringing,
wiping your cheeks off tears’ and sweat’s rush,
for worn out in thin, tossing fingers
your fiddle’s bow, or feather, or brush.

Translated by Yevgeny Bonver