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Bulat Okudzhava. Collection of Poems. Bilingual Version. Translated from the Russian by Alec Vagapov |
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Булат Окуджава Сборник песен Перевод А.С. Вагапова |
Bulat Okudzhava Collection of Poems
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Ее утешают, а шарик летит. Девушка плачет: жениха все нет. Ее утешают, а шарик летит. Женщина плачет: муж ушел к другой. Ее утешают, а шарик летит. Плачет старушка: мало пожила... А шарик вернулся, а он голубой. 1957 |
People console her, the balloon flies on. A young maid's crying: no boy-friend as yet. People console her, the balloon flies on. A woman is crying: her husband has left. People console her, the balloon flies on. An old woman's crying: her life has been short. The balloon has come back, and its colour is blue. |
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mothers seem to be fond of their kids, love them dearly. In the past they did loved them, really, but often reproached them for sponging, and spanked them severely. just in case, for some future occasion: alarm, faith, love and tears... Is it an instinct or weakness, faint heart, or is it a historic experience? that, invisible, hangs in the air, that has given them fussy and fidgety love and filled their life with great care? the right for the last word, or rather they are anxious to praise, exalt and forgive and make wonders instead of some other? however you look, and no matter what lesson life gives us, the price of caress and love in this world again has gone up for some reasons. lie, tease cats, flood the markets, in laziness wallow, it's Abel and Icarus, not Cain and Daedelus, whom, mothers believe, they will follow. through the caprice and wrath, through the chaos of fuss of their daughters' whimsy: now Penelope's grief, now the arms of Jeanne d'Arc, now the visage of grand Mona Lisa. and their beautiful eyebrows, raised when they're bothered, and I cannot imagine anything else but for this love of mothers! |
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1964 |
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Пока земля еще вертится, пока еще ярок свет, Господи, дай же ты каждому, чего у него нет. Умному дай голову, трусливому дай коня, дай счастливому денег, и не забудь про меня. дай рвущемуся к власти навластвоваться всласть. Дай передышку щедрому хоть до исхода дня, Каину дай раскаяние, и не забудь про меня. как верит солдат убитый, что он проживает в раю! Как верит каждое ухо тихим речам твоим, Как веруем и мы сами, не ведая, что творим. Пока земля еще вертится, и это ей странно самой, пока ей еще хватает времени и огня, дай же ты всем понемногу, и не забудь про меня! Избранное. Стихотворения. "Московский Рабочий", 1989. |
Oh Lord, pray, please give everyone what he or she hasn't got. Give the timid a horse to ride, give the wise a bright head, Give the fortunate money and about me don't forget. Let those striving for power wield it to their heart's content. Give a break to the generous, at least for a day or two, Pray, give Cain repentance, and remember me, too. I know You are almighty, and I believe You are wise Like a soldier killed in a battle believes he's in paradise. Like every eared creature believes, oh, my Lord, in You, Like we believe, doing something, not knowing what we do. Oh Lord, oh my sweet Lord, my blue eyed Lord, You're good! While the world is still turning, wondering, why it should, While it has got sufficient fire and time, as You see, Give each a little of something and remember about me! |
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To M. Kvilividze |
Виноградную косточку в теплую землю зарою, и лозу поцелую, и спелые гроздья сорву, и друзей созову, на любовь свое сердце настрою. А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу? Собирайтесь-ка, гости мои, на мое угощенье, говорите мне прямо в лицо, кем пред вами слыву, царь небесный пошлет мне прощенье за прегрешенья. А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу? В темно-красном своем будет петь для меня моя Дали, в черно-белом своем преклоню перед нею главу, и заслушаюсь я, и умру от любви и печали... А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу? И когда заклубится закат, по углам залетая, пусть опять и опять предо мною плывут наяву синий буйвол, и белый орел, и форель золотая... А иначе зачем на земле этой вечной живу? |
and I'll kiss the vine twig and gather sweet grapes, my reward, and I'll call all my friends to the feast, and love in my heart I will rouse... Otherwise, what's the purpose of living in this lasting world? Dear guests, come to table, I extend you my kind invitation, tell me straight in my face the opinion of me that you hold, God almighty will send me forgiveness for my transgression. Otherwise, what's the purpose of living in this lasting world? Dressed in purple, my charming Dali for me will be singing, dressed in black, I'll sit bending my head without saying a word, I'll be listening enchanted and I'll die from deep love and sad feeling... Otherwise, what's the purpose of living in this lasting world? When the sunset starts swirling and searching the corners around, May the images float, as if real, again, may them swirl right in front of my eyes: a blue ox, a white eagle, a trout... Otherwise, what's the purpose of living at all in this world? |
В. Золотухину |
To V. Zolotukhin |
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To P. Luspekayev |
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Москва: Советский писатель, 1967. |
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И.Б |
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Ю.Трифонову |
To Yury Trifonov |
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И. Шварцу |
To I. Schvarts |
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