All the apple and pear trees are in blossom,
Morning fogs along the river creep,
And the girl, Katyusha, young and lovesome,
Comes the river bank that’s high and steep.
She walks out and starts a song about
Her brave boy - a steppe dove-colored eagle,
How she waits for him, without doubt
To his letters glad she's been and will.
Let you, song, according to her order
Fly to heights, and follow the Earth,
To the soldier at the country’s border
From Katyusha bring the greeting warmth.
Let him hear the song true and sincere,
By the honest girl sent as a dove.
Let him keep safe earth beloved, dear,
And Katyusha will take care of love.
All the apple and pear trees are in blossom,
Morning fogs along the river creep,
And the girl, Katyusha, young and lovesome,
Comes the river bank that’s high and steep.
Расцветали яблони и груши,
Поплыли туманы над рекой.
Выходила на берег Катюша,
На высокий берег на крутой.
Выходила, песню заводила
Про степного сизого орла,
Про того, которого любила,
Про того, чьи письма берегла.
Ой ты, песня, песенка девичья,
Ты лети за ясным солнцем вслед:
И бойцу на дальнем пограничье
От Катюши передай привет.
Пусть он вспомнит девушку простую,
Пусть услышит, как она поет,
Пусть он землю бережет родную,
А любовь Катюша сбережет.
Расцветали яблони и груши,
Поплыли туманы над рекой.
Выходила на берег Катюша,
На высокий берег на крутой.
«We are so bound up in discord / The centuries cannot disentangle us — / I’m a warlock, you’re a wolf. We’re close / In the continuous dictionary of earth. Shoulder to shoulder, like the blind, / And led along by destiny, / In the undying dictionary of this country / We’re both...»
«A German machinegunner will shoot me in the road, or / An incendiary bomb will break my legs, or An SS-kid will give me a bullet in the gut. / In any case, on this front, they’ve got me covered. Without my name, or glory, or even boots, / With frozen eyes I’ll gaze at the snow, blood-col...»
«The Lethe’s wind is blowing over me / With anodyne and slow beatitude. / “Where should I with such a muteness be, / When the perfection is so blind and rude.” Being exhausted, deathly granite grows / Silent and cold over the darkling water / “It’s time, my friend. The city sadl...»
«A chart of living daubed I, quickly, / the paint from jam jar did I splatter; / I fingered plate of aspic, sickly / with curving prows through ocean water. / In scale of pickled herringed letter — / a proclamation from new lips. / And you / a nocturne could / ...»