Thursday, July 5, 2012

"I'm writing a historical novel!"

my translation of the song, written in 1975 by Russian bard Bulat Okudzhave

In a dark glass bottle
from under imported beer
red rose bloomed
proudly and slowly.

The historical novel
I wrote a little by little,
breaking as into the fog
from prologue to epilogue.

Ref.: Everyone writes what he hears,
        everyone hears how he breathes,
        as he breathes so he writes,
        not trying to please.
        Since the nature wanted
        why? - not our business,
        why? - not for us to judge.

There the sky was blue ahead,
and the fantasy - in abundance,
and out of my destiny
I pulled the thread by thread.

I fitted out the heroes in the path,
searched notes about past,
and imagined myself as
retired lieutenant.


Fantasy's not a hoax,
the idea's not yet the whole,-
give me to finish a novel
until the last page.

And while it still alive,
red rose in a bottle,
give me to shout out words,
that long lie in the bank.


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