Hey you there, Russia — my beloved land!
I feel so good within your deep green forests!
No singing heard, but I do sense it now,
I sense the song of some unseen strange chorus...
It was as if the wind drove me ahead,
Through all my land — it's villages and cities!
Yes, I was strong, but stronger was the wind,
I had no chance to stop and fix my breathing.
Hey you there, Russia — my beloved land!
My bond to you, your hay, your stalks of harvest,
My simple house amidst the endless fields,
Will hold right through, in spite the worst of hardships.
For all world's riches I won't give away
That lowly shack with nettle by the entrance,
Where in the evenings weary sun would move
Like some old friend into my humble chambers.
Where all the vastness, earthly and divine,
Would fill my window perfect peace and quiet,
Both bringing breeze of ancient days bygone,
And celebrating every day's own riot.
Привет, Россия — родина моя!
Как под твоей мне радостно листвою!
И пенья нет, но ясно слышу я
Незримых певчих пенье хоровое...
Как будто ветер гнал меня по ней,
По всей земле — по селам и столицам!
Я сильный был, но ветер был сильней,
И я нигде не мог остановиться.
Привет, Россия — родина моя!
Сильнее бурь, сильнее всякой воли
Любовь к твоим овинам у жнивья,
Любовь к тебе, изба в лазурном поле.
За все хоромы я не отдаю
Свой низкий дом с крапивой под оконцем.
Как миротворно в горницу мою
По вечерам закатывалось солнце!
Как весь простор, небесный и земной,
Дышал в оконце счастьем и покоем,
И достославной веял стариной,
И ликовал под ливнями и зноем!..
«Will I ever forget it, that mythical night: / in the blaze of the setting sun / an abyss divided the sky in two / and the street lamps came on one by one. I sat in a crowd by the window while somewhere / an orchestra sang about love; / I sent you a rose in a glass of champagne / as gold...»
«Good is the wine that is in love with us, / and good is bread, our generous friend; / and good the woman who brings us torment / yet yields her sweetness to us in the end. But what are we to do with sunset fires? / With joys that can’t be eaten, drunk or kissed? / And what are we to do ...»
«Fine is the wine that is in love with us, / The goodly bread we wait for from the oven, / And woman whom we have possessed, at last, / After we've suffered under yoke her own. But what to do if a red sunset freezes / Above a sky that's drowning in cold, / Where there is silence and uneart...»
«How pleased we are by the entrancing wine / And by the bread that’s waiting in the oven, / And by the woman who can pacify / Our agonies in the delights of loving. But with the sunset’s color of a rose / Above the cool horizon of the sky — / What do we do with that divine repos...»