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. Ref. 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. Ref. | |||
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