Bulat Okudjava

Now falling, now growing, endless,
like does a little boat on a wave,
a street-organ was sending me thick sadness
from our yard as gloomy as a grave.

And now on the bitter tears’ line 
I suddenly began to hear very clear
A little voice of a little note, here,
Tho’ crazy, but so gay and happy one.   

Tho’ we were pushed in almost a fear
By dissonance of bellows, so tight,
But before flood will cover our sphere,
All wants to live. And nothing else is right!

And all attempts, tho’ cunning ones and eager,
To give us something ‘stead of love, did fail.
One hundred times I’ve pulled the cold trigger,
But every time flew out a nightingale.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, May, 2001