We stood in the ranks — as a mute crowd, once,
While putting our friend to a ground,
Heard our chaplain's murmur and, by chance,
The roar of a tempest around.
The shakos sparkled over the sacred abode,
Immovable ones in a cloud,
With a cap of an uhlan and his fighting sword,
The coffin's planks were laden out.
Not only one heart strongly beat in the breast,
All looks were aimed straight at a ground,
As if all, that's given to it for the rest,
We wanted to be taken out.
The vain tears didn't flow from our eyes:
A heavy pine burdened a soul,
A handful of earth, that in silence was cast,
Played over a coffin its solo.
Farewell, our friend, your young life was so short,
— A Bard with eyes blue as a heaven —
The wooden cross stands for your only award —
And our soul — forever!
В рядах стояли безмолвной толпой,
Когда хоронили мы друга;
Лишь поп полковой бормотал — и порой
Ревела осенняя вьюга.
Кругом кивера́ над могилой святой
Недвижны в тумане сверкали,
Уланская шапка да меч боевой
На гробе дощатом лежали.
И билося сердце в груди не одно,
И в землю все очи смотрели,
Как будто бы всё, что уж ей отдано,
Они у ней вырвать хотели.
Напрасные слезы из глаз не текли:
Тоска наши души сжимала,
И горсть роковая прощальной земли,
Упавши на гроб, застучала.
Прощай, наш товарищ, недолго ты жил,
Певец с голубыми очами;
Лишь крест деревянный себе заслужил
Да вечную память меж нами!
«I today all night long could not sleep / From the magickal month-of-May noise! / Quietly pulled on the pantyhose / And to the window slipped. I'm a rebel with whirlwind in the blood, / Only passion and cold matter to me. / I have read Bourge too: One can't be / Happy when one is unloved...»
«Here's the world, where glass-cases are shining, / Here's Tverskaya — we miss it eternally. / Whom does Asya need more than Marina? / Whom does dear Asya need more than me? In a lively row walking, drinking / Sunset, voices, lights, — all that's there, / And at times lowering our ey...»
«My friend, you will ask, who ordains / that the speech of a blessed fool should burn? Let's scatter our words / As the garden scatters amber zest, / Absentmindedly and generously / Bit by bit by bit. Let's not discuss / Why the leaves are patterned / So formally / With ruby and lemon...»
«Ring, sing, oblivion preventing, / The words "fifteen years old" in my soul. / Why, did I grow up and become big? / Nothing consoles. Just yesterday, into green grove of birches / Free, in the morning I ran away. / Just yesterday I frolicked without hairdo, / Just yesterday! Spring rin...»