The moon is the tongue
In the bell of the sky.
The homeland's my mother,
А Bolshevik am I.
Hail the universal
Brotherhood of man!
That's why with my verse
For your death I give thanks.
Strong, tough and healthy,
To hasten your doom
The blue bell of heaven
I strike with the moon.
Countrymen, brothel's,
My song is for you.
Through the mist I can hear it,
The wonderful news.
2
Небо — как колокол,
Месяц — язык,
Мать моя — родина,
Я — большевик.
Ради вселенского
Братства людей
Радуюся песней я
Смерти твоей.
Крепкий и сильный,
На гибель твою
В колокол синий
Я месяцем бью.
Братья-миряне,
Вам моя песнь.
Слышу в тумане я
Светлую весть.
«The angel was flying through sky in midnight, / And softly he sang in his flight; / And clouds, and stars, and the moon in a throng / Hearkened to that holy song. / He sang of the garden of God's paradise, / Of innocent ghosts in its shade; / He sang of the God, and his vivacious praise ...»
«Beside a blessed mansion's gate / There stood a beggar with a staff, / A poor, half-dead, dried out by fate / Of hardships, pain he'd had enough. For just a bread-piece was his pray / Of tortures, anguish was his sight / Some man a stone came up to lay / Into his hand reached outright. ...»
«By a loophole, I sit in my prison, / Could see the blue of the heaven from there, / I feel sharp pain and a shame at the vision / Of heedless birds, freely playing in air. On my dry lips, I’ve not any prayers, / Nor any songs, that have ever to fly on, / But I remember the ancient batt...»
«I’m to believe, but with some fear, / For I haven’t tried it all before, / That every monk could be sincere / And live as he by altar swore; / That smiles and kisses of all people / Could be perfidious only once; / That, sometimes, they forgive the little / Mistakes, the others mak...»