* * *
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All
night the roosters uttered cries,
and swayed their necks like crazy,
as if they were reading rhymes
declaiming in a frenzy.
And in those cries there was the kind
of bitterness, aroused
by the unwanted man�s defiant
appearance in the house.
Far-far away the crowing rang,
inept and unavailing,
like the caressing of a man
who has become an alien
when she�s unable to caress
and chary of refusing...
And thus the night dragged on like blessed,
unending
and confusing.
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THE
MAIN SONG
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Wherever I go I can hear
the song that has turned me on,
the best one I heard over here,
I listen again to the song.
The singing requires more effort,
it�s raw and unripe, in fact.
However, the music is perfect,
the lyric precise and exact.
Through times yet unseen and unknown
through transient tears and smiles
I hear a trumpeter blowing
the tune in the best of styles.
Unusual, light and so pleasant,
it whirls over roads in a spin,
this main song which up to the present
I haven�t been able to sing.
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PHOTOGRAPHS
OF MY FRIENDS
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Money comes and goes and tears,
words are easy to forget,
grass is trampled, leaves are shed,
only faces, it appears,
will remain in their stead...
When they smile, or when in tears,
their voices can�t be heard.
Biographical descriptions
pour from photographic pictures;
all those lives are interwoven,
interlaced with our own.
Neither suffering nor grievance
can be seen, � they�re out of sight,
just as envy, greed and plight
can�t be seen from their appearance,
nor concern, nor magic spells,
no regret, nor disappointment...
there are two things in the portrait, �
light and age, � and nothing else.
We embrace them live, regarding,
and we drink to their fate...
...it�s a pity, understanding
comes a little bit too late!
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* * *
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Here
we stand, in desperation,
folding our arms in pride,
on the brink of separation,
at the threshold of a plight
where clocks with measured paces
stick precisely to their course,
and we keep our smiling faces
under lock and key, like doors.
Days of reconing are close, and
time has driven us to bay...
We are nailed to our crossroads
in a careless, slipshod way.
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THE
YARD IN ARBAT STREET
|
...Like songs, years go by very quickly.
I've changed all my views and my mood.
The yard is too small for me, really,
I�m going to leave it for good.
I want neither honors nor riches,
nor anything else for the road
except for my neighbourhood which is
the only big thing that I�ve got.
Into my rucksack I put it
preparing myself for the stroll,
the yard, not so highly reputed,
but with a human soul.
I�m kind with it, strong, safe and sound.
What else do I need for once?
I touch its affectionate ground
to warm up my frozen hands.
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* * *
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Unyielding,
raged and free,
burn, fire, burn on, please...
Decembers tend to be
replaced by Januaries.
We�ve anything at all:
smiles, joys and everything,
one common moon for all,
one summer and one spring.
We�d live and go to grass
then, come what may, we will
for all the wrongs of ours
stand trial by ordeal.
We do not care, since
we know: when life is gone
for all of our sins
the reconing is one.
Unyielding, raged and free,
burn, fire, burn on, please...
Decembers have to be
replaced by Januaries.
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THE
SONG OF A HAPPY SOLDIER
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I�ll take a bag, a helmet and a ration,
a jacket of protective coloration,
I�ll tramp about the streets, a barracks lodger,
it�s easy to become a real soldier.
I will forget my daily cares and pledges,
I do not have to think of jobs and wages.
I�m playing with my gun, a barracks lodger,
it�s easy to become a real soldier.
If something should go wrong, I do not care.
It�s, so to say, my Motherland�s affair.
It�s great to be a simple barracks lodger,
an innocent and inoffensive soldier.
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* * *
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I�ve sung
all my songs.
I�m out.
So don�t talk about it now.
Though, maybe, a line, or a sound,
has been left out somehow.
The wheels spin above and around it,
and though it can�t swing at one dash,
naive and quite simple-minded,
it�s eager to dazzle and flash.
There�s still room for hope, oh my dear,
spread out your nice little sails,
you� are like a shell much too sheer
to sail through the city waves.
Wherever the waves cast you out
don�t call anybody for aid;
there�s no need to give an account,
keep sailing, do not be afraid.
You�ll be like the instant picture
of silver midnight and yard,
a boy with guitar as a feature
of neighbourhood
in Arbat.
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THE NIGHT
DUTY IN APRIL
to Zh.B.
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What a wonderful and lovely night we�re having!
But my mother is alarmed and worried strongly.
� Why do you stay out at these hours, darling,
on your own
and so lonely?
� I�m on my way towards the end of April, dear,
I should say, the stars have grown kind and round...
Mother, I�m just on duty here,
It�s my April
Nightly round
� Sonny, dear, I remember all your story;
now you�re sad, your eyes are filled with grievance...
Maybe, she�s forgotten you, and isn�t sorry,
and she doesn�t
seek forgiveness?
� I�m on my way towards the end of April, dear,
I should say, the stars have grown kind and round...
Mother, I�m just on duty here,
It�s my April
nightly round�
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