Bulat Okudzhava

When I am besieged with despair and reprove,
Because can't stop fatal disaster,
I enter a blue trolley bus at his move -
That's here by chance and the last one.
...

The nightingales fill earth with notes
And the May rain - with sense of charms,
But a tin soldier, little and honest,
Is doomed to endless feats of arms.
...

There's no more a sound of our battle song,
Nor a ring of hoofs of our horses,
Bullets made the holes the mess-kit along,
The young sulteress's, too, midst our losses.
...

When, like a beast, the snow storm roars,
when, in a rage, it howls,
You do not have to lock the doors,
of your residing house.
...

They killed my father. He was killed
with no good reason - just in vain.
That was a little drop of lead,
but how's deep the wound and pain.
...

Why are you so sad, my good artist -
my good painter, musician or bard?
To which one of the tempests, the wildest,
had you spent all your talent and heart?
...

Consciousness, magnificence and dignity -
Our spiritual nobility.
Stretch your palm to it, ‘cause for the sake
Such a thing, one can raise to the stake.
...

Oh, you, fancies on the subject
Of defeating bad by good!
In our Solar System, abject,
You're for demolition put.
...

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.
...

The gates of the commemoration
were opened for instant again,
and sets out my generation
for last, for concluding campaign.
...

They bottomless - deeps of the love of each mother,
Therefore this love's highly praised.
But, a she-bear loves her children, rather, ―
Her silly and clumsy cubs.
...

Why are you so sad, my good artist -
my good painter, musician or bard?
To which one of the tempests, the wildest,
had you spent all your talent and heart?
...

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.
...

Your father, my son, is the lazy and cheat
of them worst in our age.
Ne'er used any hummer or plough in his deed.
It's true - I can give you my pledge.
...

Oh, cuirassier, your age isn't long one
And that is why it's so sweet.
The trumpet sings, curtains are opened,
a sables' ring from somewhere fleets.
...

The Eighteenth Age, from the antic reality,
to enlighten us, brought to our sight
the love's cult, charms of slim personality,
and the lessons of earthly delights.
...

While Earth is still turning around,
While light is still warming and bright,
I pray you, my Lord, give just everyone,
What everyone hasn't on his side:
...

Get up early, get up early in the summer,
When a dvornik's looming up before your gates,
You will see then, you will see then, that the little joyful drummer
Takes the easy maple drum-sticks with his hands.
...

Well, let us think out the autocrat,
the one who in all souls reigns
from age when a childe is not grown yet
and to the magnificent grays.
...

Involved in earthly zeal and rages,
I know that from dark to light,
Once, will come out the Black Angel
and cry: ‘Salvation is a lie!'
...