Римски театар

Римски театар


























    Bulat Okudzava

    Булат Окуџава


While the earth is still turning, while the light is still bright,
Lord, give to everyone that which they lack:
To the wise give head, to the coward a horse,
Give the lucky man money…And don’t forget about me.

While the earth is still turning --Lord, it is your will!--
Grant the man who wants power to rule to his heart’s content,
Grant the generous man respite, if only to the end of the day,
Grant repentance to Cain…And don’t forget about me.

I know you can do anything: I believe in your wisdom,
As the murdered soldier believes that he is going to heaven,
As each ear believes in your quiet words,
As we ourselves believe, not knowing what we do.

Lord, my God, my green-eyed one!
While the earth is still turning, amazed itself that it does,
While it still has some time and fire left,
Give a little to everyone…And don’t forget about me.



A soldier lived in this world,
Handsome and brave,
But he was merely a child's toy:
A soldier made of paper.

He wanted to change the whole world,
And bring happiness to everyone,
But he was hanging on the strings:
A soldier made of paper.

He was willing to go through fire and smoke,
And die for you twice, if he could,
But why should you feel sorry for him -
For a soldier made of paper?

You would never confide to him
Any of your important secrets.
Why not? Well, because he was just
A soldier made of paper.

He cursed his fate,
And did not appreciate a quiet life,
And he cried, 'To fire, to fire!'
Forgetting that he's made of paper.

'To fire? Well, go, if you wish to!'
And he stepped forward courageously,
And he burnt down and died for nothing,
A soldier made of paper.



From the yard, you can enter a passage
Which we call 'a black corridor',
In that passage, considering it his property,
There lives a Black Cat.

He hides a smile under his whiskers,
Using darkness as a shield.
All the cats meow or whine -
But that Black Cat is silent.

Long ago he has stopped hunting mice,
He just smiles under his whiskers
And hunts us - baiting us with promises
And with little sausage pieces.

He neither asks, nor begs for anything,
His yellow eyes are glowing,
Everyone brings him offerings of their own accord,
And even say 'thank you' to him.

He never utters a sound,
He just eats and drinks,
When he scratches the dirty floor,
It feels like he's clawing your throat.

Since he's been here, you know,
Our home is not very happy.
We should install a lamp in there...
But we can never save enough money.


A girl is crying: her balloon has flown away.
They comfort her, and the balloon flies on.

A maiden is crying: she still has no bridegroom.
They comfort her, and the balloon flies on.

A woman is crying: her husband loves another.
They comfort her, and the balloon flies on.

An old lady is crying: her life has been so short.
And the balloon has returned, and it is blue.



Do you hear the stamping of boots,
And the birds flying away in fear,
And the women watching and shielding their eyes?
Do you know what they are looking at?

Do you hear the thunder of drums?
Soldier, now say your farewells,
The platoon heads on into fog-fog-fog...
And the past becomes clearer, clearer, clearer.

And where is our manliness, oh soldier,
When we are returning from war?
Deceitful women steal it,
And hide it like a little bird under their armpit.

And where are our wives, comrade,
When we return to our doorstep?
They welcome us and lead us inside,
But our homes reek of adultery.

Then we wave off the past and curse it,
And hopefully look to the future for light,
While crows grow fat in the battlefields,
And the war cackles and follows at our heels.

And again it's a shortcut to the boots,
And the birds flying away in fear,
And the women watching and shielding their eyes,
Staring at the back of our heads.



Artists, dip your brushes
Into the glow of the Arbat yards at dawn,
So that your brushes become like leaves,
Like leaves, like leaves in November.

Dip your brushes in the colour blue,
Into the vanishing city tradition,
Paint your pictures ardently and with love,
Just as we lovingly walk down the Tverska street.

Let the Mostovaya street stir up!
Let there begin what still hasn't begun!
Keep on painting, you will be remembered...
What do we care if you're successful or not!

Like judges, paint our lot and destiny,
Our autumn, our winter and our spring,
Don't mind our perplexity, just paint on!
And afterwards I shall explain the inexplicable.



When sadness and misery wear me out,
When I'm overwhelmed with despair,
I run and catch a blue trolley bus,
The last one,

The last trolley bus runs down the street,
Circles along the boulevards,
To pick up all those who have suffered this night
A shipwreck,
A shipwreck.

Last trolley bus, open your door to me!
I know how during the ripples of midnight
Your passengers - your crew of sailors -
Will offer
Their help.

More than once with them I have run away from misery,
And found refuge in their closeness,
Can you imagine how much goodness there is
In silence,
In silence.

The last trolley bus floats all over Moscow,
Moscow is like a river which quiets down,
And the pain that was hammering in my temples,
Is subsiding,



When suddenly, and still unclear,
There springs up a sound of trumpet,
When words, like a night hawk,
Burst out from the burning lips,
A song, like an incidental rain,
Showers on people and floats among them,
A little orchestra of hope,
Conducted by love.

In the years of partings, the years of war,
When the rains of iron
Beat on our backs so badly,
And there was no mercy,
When all the commanders grew callous,
Then it resumed command over people:
That little orchestra of hope,
Conducted by love.

The clarinet has been pierced, the trumpet destroyed,
Bassoon's worn out like an old walking stick,
The drum is torn at the seams,
But the clarinetist is so devilishly handsome!
The flutist is dressed up like a young prince...
And always it continues to address people,
That little orchestra of hope,
Conducted by love.



Imprinted in my soul, there is a portrait of a beautiful lady.
Her eyes are fixed on the days of a different era.
There it is good, nobody is redundant, and fear does not rule over years,
And people have forgiven each other everything long ago.

The highest choir still sings an ode of praise for her,
And all the musicians are dressed in parade jackets.
But with each new note, a different tune begins...
And the conductor breaks the baton in his hand.

I will not insult my fate by bursting suddenly into tears,
But here is what I think of every now and then:
What are we worth, gentlemen, in comparison with that beautiful lady,
What is our life worth, and our ladies, gentlemen?

Perhaps she is still inclined to me as she used to be,
And for that reason, heaven is inclined to her.
Perhaps she writes to me, but... all the postmen have grown old,
And all the addresses have changed long ago.



I wish to write a poem about Volodya Visotsky,
Another one who has not come back home from the crusades.
They say he was a sinner, and lived like a candle flame...
He lived as he could, and nature doesn't know anyone who hasn't sinned.

The parting will not last too long, it will be short,
While his footsteps are still warm, we will follow,
Let his hoarse baritone circle around Moscow,
And make us laugh, and then we'll cry together.

On Volodya Visotsky I wanted to write a poem,
But my hand is shaking, and my verse could not find a motif...
A white Moscow crane has flown into the white skies,
A black Moscow crane has dropped on black ground.



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