Whispers, timid breathing,
trills of a nightingale,
the silver and the shiver
of a sleepy rill.
Pale light and nighttime shadows,
shadows without end,
all the magic transformations
of eyes and lips and brows.
In smoky clouds, a rose’s purple,
the shine of amber beads,
and the kisses, and the tears,
and the dawn, the dawn!
by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet)
a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin)
(1850)
translated by Boris Dralyuk
When the streets empty out
and the singing dies down
and a white fog covers
the swamps and the town,
from the forests in silence
one after another
the wolves come out and go hunting.
Seven wolves walk on bravely;
in front of them walks
an eighth with white fur;
while bringing up the rear
is a ninth, who is lame:
with a heel that is bloody
he completes their mysterious procession.
Nothing frightens or scares them.
If they walk through the town
not a dog will bark at them,
while a man will not dare
even to breathe if he sees them.
He becomes pale with fear
and quietly utters a prayer.
The wolves circle the church
carefully all around;
into the parson’s yard they enter,
with tails sweeping the ground;
near the tavern they listen
pricking their ears
for any words being said that are sinful.
All their eyes are like candles,
sharp as needles their teeth.
Go and take thirteen bullets,
with goat’s fur plug them in,
and then fire at them bravely.
The white wolf will fall first;
after him, the rest will fall also.
When dawn comes and the townsmen
are awoken by the cock,
you will find nine old women
lying dead on the ground.
In front, a grey-haired one,
in back, a lame one,
all in blood… may the Lord be with us!
by Алексей Константинович Толстой (Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy)
(1840s)
translated by Ilya Bernstein
Sometimes I think soldiers, who have never
come back to us from the blood-covered plains,
escaped the ground and didn’t cross the River,
but turned instead into white screeching cranes.
And since that time the flock is flying, narrow
or wide, or long – and maybe that is why
so often and with such a sudden sorrow
we stop abruptly, staring at the sky.
On flies the wedge trespassing every border –
a sad formation, ranks of do-re-mi,
and there’s a gap in their open order:
it is the space they have reserved for me.
The day will come: beneath an evening cloud
I’ll fly, crane on my right, crane on my left,
and in a voice like theirs, shrill and loud,
call out, call out to those on earth I’ve left.
by Расул Гамзатович Гамзатов (Rasul Gamzatovich Gamzatov) (1968)
translated by Irina Mashinski
This poem was set to music, first performed in 1969, soon becoming one of the most famous Russian songs about World War II.
The poem’s publication in the journal Novy Mir caught the attention of the famous actor and crooner Mark Bernes who revised the lyrics and asked Yan Frenkel to compose the music. When Frenkel first played his new song, Bernes (who was by then suffering from lung cancer) cried because he felt that this song was about his own fate: “There is a small empty spot in the crane flock. Maybe it is reserved for me. One day I will join them, and from the skies I will call on all of you whom I had left on earth.” The song was recorded from the first attempt on 9 July 1969. Bernes died a month after the recording on 16 August 1969, and the record was played at his funeral. Later on, “Zhuravli” would most often be performed by Joseph Kobzon. According to Frenkel, “Cranes” was Bernes’ last record, his “true swan song.”
Rambling At The Bridge Head 