Tears... again these bitter tears,
For broken dreams that flew far away,
For dreaded sadness that nothing cheers,
For new darkness, that nothing keeps at bay.
What is to come? More such torment?
No, its enough... It is time to rest, let go,
And to forget the sounds of lament,
A heart is full and can stand it no more.
Who is singing in the shade of the birch tree?
The sounds are familiar — the tears again...
These tears are for my homeland and to me
They are full of longing, worry and pain.
I am in my beloved country; yet, my grave —
Heart languishes in tears, I weep...
Now it seems that only in a cold grave
I will be able to forget and find some sleep.
Слёзы… опять эти горькие слёзы,
Безотрадная грусть и печаль;
Снова мрак… и разбитые грёзы
Унеслись в бесконечную даль.
Что же дальше? Опять эти муки?
Нет, довольно… Пора отдохнуть
И забыть эти грустные звуки,
Уж и так истомилася грудь.
Кто поёт там под сенью берёзы?
Звуки будто знакомые мне —
Это слёзы опять… Это слёзы
И тоска по родной стороне.
Но ведь я же на родине милой,
А в слезах истомил свою грудь.
Эх… лишь, видно, в холодной могиле
Я забыться могу и заснуть.
«The vanished joy of my crazy years / Is as heavy as gloomy hang-over. / But, like wine, the sorrow of past days / Is stronger with time. / My path is sad. The waving sea of the future / Promises me only toil and sorrow. But, O my friends, I do not wish to die, / I want to live –...»
«Of madness years the faded joy and laughter / Weigh gravely like a hazy morning after. / And yet the sorrows of the finished page, / Like fancy wine, still stronger get with age. / My way lies dreary. Work and grief are written / In what’s to come, which like the sea is smitten. But, o...»
«The sultry sun heats to the seventh sweat. / The ravine rages in the frenzy, senseless. / As though a cowgirl working in the stead, — / The spring is busy, and its chores are endless. Out in the light, the snow-banks slowly slump, / Their bloodless, twig-like veins turn paler still. / ...»
«There’s still the twilight of the night. / The world’s so young in its proceeding, / That there are countless stars outside / And each one, like the day, is bright / And if the Earth could so decide, / She’d sleep through Easter in delight, / Hearing the Psalter reading. There’s...»