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?
«“A sensuous, beckoning shadow / lingered Near Alexandria’s lush halls.” — Pushkin / / She’s already kissed her cold Antony, on his dead lips. / She’s already kneeled down in front of Augustus and cried. / Now she is betrayed by the servants: victorious trumpets / Sound unde...»
«Alexandria’s palaces / Covered with sweet shadows. / Pushkin She has already kissed Antony’s dead lips, / Already wept on her knees before Augustus… / And her servants have betrayed her. Trumpets / Cry below Roman eagles, the gloom of dusk. Noble and stately, stammering with confus...»
«His eyes are like faded burdock. / He clasps the coins in his hands. / He was a glorious shepherd, / Now he sings of times past. / And in the corner, an old woman / Sheds tears in front of an icon. / She used to be his beloved, / His drunk nectar in a green meadow. / Dry dust coats t...»
«For A. Sakharov / / The storm has passed. Few of us survived. / Many are missing from friendship’s roll call. / I’ve returned to the orphaned region / I haven’t seen in eight years. / / Who should I call to? With whom should I share / The sad joy that I’m still alive? / ...»