Bulat Okudzhava
Wintertime. Night. Flying over the lampshade a butterfly struggles...

Wintertime. Night. Flying over the lampshade
a butterfly struggles:
wishing to rise high above the precarious fortune
one bungles.

Now in December a summer time butterfly
wants to revive,
not even thinking about
the Good and the Evil in life.

Is it a butterfly, or just a heavenly angel,
I wonder,
fluttering round and cherishing hopes
for some wonder?

Angel’s attending these places
is not accidental at all,
once I can clearly see in it
outline sketch of your soul.

Colds, storms and blizzards are common
in this part of land at this season.
When I expressed my regret that we’d failed to take off
I was teasing.

We have been driven insane by the losses and gains,
that is why
now we must use the experience and skill
of the creatures that fly.

Strange that you tolerate us leggy, queer
and spectacled creatures,
during occasional meetings
you laud our excellent features.

Is it because we have broken our backs
so we finally could
figure the distance between the old notions
of Evil and Good?

Therefore, now since we don’t have to get
into that calculation
let us believe, let us hope
that I’ll see you on summer vocation.

One might assume that it’s only in summer
that life is unending...
There is the fluttering angel up there...
Who knows what is pending...

Translated by Alec Vagapov