There was a lad who once lived in our village,
He had a youthful bride with raven hair,
That self-same year when she and he turned twenty
Came war, and tore him from his bride so fair.
The hero’s bride is now a hero’s widow.
Her hair is grey, her eyes have lost their fire;
Their son, who bears his father’s name so precious,
Today is older than his fallen sire.
У юноши из нашего аула
Была черноволосая жена,
В тот год, когда по двадцать им минуло,
Пришла и разлучила их война.
Жена двадцатилетнего героя
Сидит седая около крыльца,
Их сын, носящий имя дорогое,
Сегодня старше своего отца.
«That evening organ’s arcing forest didn’t grumble — / The trees sang Schubert to us, their own cradle’s sound. / The windmill whispered, and in tempest’s stirring rumble / Was blue-eyed drunkenness of music’s laughter found. The world of ancient song is coloured green and russet /...»
«Lived Alexander Gertsevich, / Musician and a Jew – / He ground the works of Schubert out / Like diamond, pure and true. He gaily played by day and night / A crackling piece he’d learned, / The one sonata’s tune that he / Had memorised he churned. What, Alexander Gertsevich, / H...»
«Where is the terrifying place / We’re bound for, Comrade Bigmouth-face? How crumbles our tobacco blend, / My nut-cracking foolish friend! A starling’s whistle might get us by, / We’ll have our fill of a nutty pie… However it goes, it’ll end.»
«Above at frightening height there burns a roaming fire! / Is it a star that blazes, flying? / This star’s transparent, and it burns with roaming fire — / Petropolis, your brother’s dying! Above at frightening height our worldly dreams now fry, / An emerald star through night is flying...»