Above the church there are blue clouds,
A crows' cry...
And pass — the color of ash and sand —
Revolutionary troops... oh my
Blue-blooded, my kingly angst!
They don't have a face, don't have a name —
Nobody sings!
You got lost, the Kremlin ringing
In this banner forest full of wind.
Lie, Moscow, onto eternal sleep, and pray!
Над церко́вкой — голубые облака,
Крик вороний…
И проходят — цвета пепла и песка —
Революционные войска.
Ох ты барская, ты царская моя тоска!
Нету лиц у них и нет имён, —
Песен нету!
Заблудился ты, кремлёвский звон,
В этом ветреном лесу знамён.
Помолись, Москва, ложись, Москва, на вечный сон!
«In those days when new to me were / Of existence all impressions: — / The maiden's glances, the forests' whisper, / The song of nightingale at night; / When the sentiments elevated / Of Freedom, glory and of love, / And of art the inspiration / Stirred deeply so my blood: — / My ...»
«Like a dog on a chain the machine-gun / Barks out from beyond the wood; / Splinters of shrapnel are buzzing / Like bees as they forage for food. And that distant ‘Hurrah’, like the song of / The reapers, might tempt you to say / That this is some peaceful village / At the end of a f...»
«To M. M. Chichagov Like a dog that strains on heavy halter / Rifle yaps across the forest now, / Bee-like, buzzing shrapnel doesn’t falter, / Gathering bright red honey from the bough. In the distance, though, “Hurrah” is sounding / Like the reapers’ singing when they’re done. / ...»
«The machine gun barks behind the thicket / Like a dog upon a heavy chain, / And the shrapnel buzzes like bees, busy, / Bringing bright red honey home again. Far off the hurrahing is like singing / Reapers whose hard daily work is done. / You must say that it’s a peaceful village / As ...»