Bulat Okudjava

Bard doesn’t have to his art competition:
On a street or in fate - it is safe.
And when he sends to world his petition,
He deplores not you – but himself.

Stretching his fragile arms to the heaven,
Slow killing himself all life through, 
He implores to be just forgiven:
Asks about himself, but not – you.

But when he does approach the limit,
And his soul flows out to night…
Field is crossed, and the all work is finished – 
Only why and for whom – you decide.

Whether there’s a sore bowl or honey,
Or a temple, or a hell fire’s hue… 
All that was yore his – is your now.
All’s for you – dedicated to you.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001