The snowstorm is crying like a Romany violin.
Sweet is the girl. She is wicked when smiling.
Blue are her eyes, do the give me a scare?
I need quite a lot, and I don't really care.
We're so much alike and so much contrasted, —
You're young. I am old. And my life has all rusted.
The young ones are happy while I am all wizened
Recalling the past, in this terrible blizzard.
I'mnot mollycoddled. The storm is my violin.
My heart is snow-clad when I see you smiling.
Плачет метель, как цыганская скрипка.
Милая девушка, злая улыбка,
Я ль не робею от синего взгляда?
Много мне нужно и много не надо.
Так мы далеки и так не схожи —
Ты молодая, а я все прожил.
Юношам счастье, а мне лишь память
Снежною ночью в лихую замять.
Я не заласкан — буря мне скрипка.
Сердце метелит твоя улыбка.
«The mournful waxworks has been open / For one year, two years, three years now. / An insolent and drunken crowd, / We run... The queen is waiting in her grave. She lies inside a coffin of glass, / She's neither dead nor living, / While people whisper endlessly / Immodest words about her...»
«In your innermost songs there are hidden / Fateful tidings of death. / A curse on sacred commandments, / And a profanation of joy. And such an alluring strength / That I'm ready to pass on the rumor / That you brought angels down / With your seductive beauty... And when you mock faith ...»
«The river spreads out. It flows, sorrowful, lazy / And washes the banks. / Above the bare clay of the yellow cliff / Haystacks languish on the steppe. O my Rus! My wife! Our long path / Is painfully clear! / Our path has pierced our breast like an arrow / Of ancient Tatar will. Our pat...»
«Above the restaurants in the evenings / The sultry air is wild and still, / And the decaying breath of spring / Drives drunken shouting. Above the dusty distant lanes / The boredom of summer homes, / The baker's gold sign barely shines / And a child's crying rings out. Each night, beyo...»