Vladislav Khodasevich
My heart is singing, singing, singing...

My heart is singing, singing, singing,
    In it there is the blossoming,
Of course, I can not have excuse
    In these so awful years.

The coffins are across my earth
    And hunger, murrain, death —
But I feel, for some reason, glee
    As if the sun is in me.

This feeling is my shame,it's true,
    But what can I do here? —
My heart against everything
    Is singing, singing, singing.

Translated by Tatiana Kocherova