Where can I look, where can I go,
to find that almost Alpine snow,
all sacrificed so life can grow,
all turned by May to splash and flow,
to breath of dandelion and rose,
to mighty wave or shining billow —
into that foolish question posed
by François Villon long ago?
Где прошлогодний снег, скажите мне?..
Нетаявший, почти альпийский снег,
Невинной жертвой отданный весне,
Апрелем обращенный в плеск и бег,
В дыханье одуванчиков и роз,
Взволнованного мира светлый вал,
В поэзию... В бессмысленный вопрос,
Что ей Виллон когда-то задавал.
«You flow like a river with your strange name / And your asphalt transparent like water in a river. / Oh my Arbat, / you are my vocation, / You are my joy and my misfortune. / / Your pedestrians are not exalted people, / Their heels pound...»
«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 t...»
«No matter how they insulted our courtyard, it’s in a classic period. / No way of coping with it now even though it’s been disarmed. / There’s Volodya in the courtyard / with his silver strings, / his golden fingers, his voice is needed. No matter how they fought against the guitar, th...»
«The Roman empire in its period of decline / retained the appearance of firm order. / The chief was in place, his comrades-in-arms by his side, / life was fine, judging by the reports. / / But critics will say that the word “comrades-in-arms” isn’t a Roman item, / that this mistake...»