The Winter Love

Such a cold was in january.
In december love had come vainly.
Winter love is short,
Obviously.
Snow is quiet falls
Down on earth.

Snow is on the streets,
Snow's in wood.
Snow in words I hear,
In your eyes, too.
Winter love is short,
Obviously.
Snow is quiet falls
Down on earth.

You are saying: 'Bye'
To me now.
And I hear your voice
Icy, round.

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poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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Wedding

By the country road I was going silent.
It was deserted and long in the view.
The accordeons had started playing suddenly,
And the silence waved her hands, being confused.

And there was wedding, wedding, wedding singing,
And was dancing.
And wings were carrying it far and far.
And there was a little place to wedding funning!
Was not enough place in the earth and sky!

Under play of the rural orchestra the wind joked
With the bride's white veil trying to twine.
The bridegroom was so serious, the bride was
Inconceivably, amazingly young.

The troikas passed by with the sound ringing,
* troika - three horses, harnessed together
And I felt the breath of spring, fresh and new.
I was going alone and unmarried,

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poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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Music

And the weddings bursted out,
And the send-offs - howled.
The holidays and woes - got entangled...
And the music staves stand as a barbed wire.
I would like to write a music in the other way,
I would like to write a music,
Falling onto the clover down.
I think, I would be fond of this singing work.
I would like to write a music
On the earth furrows,
On the palm of the one-year baby.
I would sleep and then rise up.
And wouldn't eat to satiety.

I would like to dissolve in some sudden motives
I would like to write a music
On the rain spurls,
Or - better - on the flying gossamers.
I would like to write a music
In the tender lakes.

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poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
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The Son Of Vera

I'm - the son of Vera...
I did not write you the letters for long,
Vera Pavlovna.
Winds have carried me away,
Winds were singing me a song
Once - impudently,
The other time - terribly,
At last - plaintively.

I'm - the son of Vera.
Oh, how did you help me, mother!
Mama Vera...
You embraced me on the empty stations, mama Vera.
I'm - the son of Vera.
You were waiting for the useless son to be back, mama Vera...
And you asked me to write
in my letters the only truth, mama Vera...

I'm - the son of Vera!
The Belief not into god, not in angels, not in the next world!

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poem by Robert Rozhdestvensky, translated by Lyudmila Purgina
Added by Poetry Lover
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