Songs

Bozh'ja mater' Utoli moja pechali
The icon of Our Lady of Sorrows
Pered grobom shla, svetla, tikha.
Was borne in front of the coffin, radiant and quiet.
A za grobom - v traurnoj vuali
And behind the coffin, in mouring veil,
Shla nevesta, provozhaja zhenikha...
Walked the young bride, bidding farewell to the groom…

Byl on tol'ko literator modnyj,
He had been nothing but a modish man of letters,
Tol'ko slov koshchunstvennykh tvorec...
A creator of sacrilegious words…
No mertvec - rodnoj dushe narodnoj:
But now he was dead, he was dear to the soul of the people:
Vsjakij svjato chtit ona konec.
For the people sacredly revere the death of any man.

I navstrechu klanjalis', krestili
Oncomers bowed their heads,
Mnogodumnyj, mnogotrudnyj lob.
Crossing their pensive, toilsome brows.
A druz'ja i blizkije pylili
And his friends and dear ones
Na ikonu, na neje, na grob...
Scattered dust on the icon, on her, on the coffin…

I s kakoju beskonechnoj grust'ju
And with what infinite sadness
(Ne o nem - bog vest' o kom?)
(Not for him – who knows for whom?)
Prinjala ona slova sochuvstvij
Did she accept their words of sympathy,
I venok sluchajnyj za venkom...
And every casually proffered wreath.

`Etikh fraz izbitykh povtoren'ja,
These repeated, hackneyed phrases,
Nikomu ne nuzhnye slova -
These words which nobody needs –
Vozvela ona v venec tvoren'ja,
She has elevated them into acme of creation,
V tajnuju ulybku bozhestva...
Into a divine and mysterious smile…

Slovno zdes', gde peli i kadili,
As if here, where people sang and offered incense,
Gde i grust' ne mozhet byt' tikha,
Where even sorrow cannot be silent,
Ubralas' ona fatoj ot pyli
She clad herself in a wedding veil against the dust,
I zhdala Inogo Zhenikha...
And awaited a bridegroom from another world…