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?
«Is this why, for countless days, / In my arms, I carried you, / Is this why, your strength had blazed / Through your lively eyes of blue! You grew slender and much taller, / Sang, and drank Madeira wine, / To the far off Anatolia, / You destroyer was assigned. Somewhere on Malahov moun...»
«Give me sickness without an end, / Suffocation and fevers prolonged, / Take away both my child and friend, / My mysterious gift of the song — / After mass, thus I’m praying, impassioned, / After so many tormented days, / Let the menacing cloud over Russia / Shimmer brightly in glor...»
«“Where, tall lady, is your gypsy child? / One who cried in your soft black shawl? / Where’s your firstborn, so little and mild, / What exactly about him do you recall?” “A mother’s fate — it’s a glorious torment, / And back then, I was unworthy, you see. / The gate into heav...»
«O, how often did I curse / Both the earth and the sky, / And the heavily waving arms / Of the moss-covered mill! / In the annex, straight and gray, / The deceased lies on the bench, / As it was three years ago. / The mice still nibble at books / The flame of the stearin candle / St...»