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.
Душа поет, поет, поет,
В душе такой расцвет,
Какому, верно, в этот год
И оправданья нет.
В церквах — гроба, по всей стране
И мор, и меч, и глад, —
Но словно солнце есть во мне:
Так я чему-то рад.
Должно быть, это мой позор,
Но что же, если вот —
Душа, всему наперекор,
Поет, поет, поет?
«Sending loved ones off on their way, / I sing songs for them to acquire, / For a memory’s sake, all that they, / Once, themselves, had gifted me prior. Down a green and shimmering lane, / To the crossroad, I walk my beloveds. / Wind, keep singing for them, do not wane, / And you, road...»
«Where does such tenderness come from? / These curls that I stroke with my hand / Aren’t the first that I’ve stroked, and I / Knew lips that were darker than yours. The stars rose in the sky and faded, / Where does such tenderness come from? — / And glowing eyes also rose and faded /...»
«Here, in my Moscow, — cupolas shine.1 / Here, in my Moscow, — church bells chime. / And the tombstones, here, all stand aligned,2 / Tsarinas sleep there, and tsars. You wouldn’t know, but in the Kremlin, at dawn, / One breathes easier — and just here alone! / You wouldn’t know...»
«Above the city Peter had abandoned, / The church bells resonated thunder. Again, their crashing waves have swept / Above the woman that you’ve left. Tsar Peter, and you, tsar, shall be admired! / Yet, here, the bells are elevated higher. So long as they ring out from the blue — / The ...»