Audacity, or Conversation Before the Battle (Дерзость, или Разговор Перед Боем)

— Lieutenant, tell me sir, why are you so somber?
Is your heart no longer fervent for our craft?

–General, lately I’ve found myself to ponder
On my numerous, past, ardent love affairs…

— Lieutenant, cease at once. ’Tis no time for humor.
There’s a battle ahead, but you drone of dames!

— General, don’t you think, right before a duel
It’s nice to reminisce on our golden days?

–Lieutenant, I must warn, no good is to come here
We are here for one goal, here for victory.

— General, yes of course, we will all be victors
But will I join you there, at the victors’ feast?

— On the fields, Lieutenant, soaked up in our blood
Glory blooms, Lieutenant, there, the triumph lies.

— General, glory is solely for the fallen
But a live man just needs his woman by his side.

— Damn it all, Lieutenant, what has happened to you?
Where’s your duty, your loathing for the enemy?

— General, think it through, what am I to do?
I’d be happy to lie, but I cannot, you see.

— Suit yourself, Lieutenant, you’ll repent in time.
I’ll have the tribunal settle the score at once.

— So it seems, General, a stranger will misfire.
But one’s own, certainly, will always hit his mark.

---

A Forest Waltz (Лесной Вальс)

In the woods, beneath a tree, a musician plays his waltz

The musician plays a waltz, with tenderness, with passion.

Once again, I look at you, and my gaze I can’t withdraw,

But you are looking up at him, and he looks into vastness.

For a century, there’s music. So our picnic’s never through.

Picnic where they drink and cry, where they love and they desert.

The musician pressed his lips to the flute…I would to you!

But you are probably the creek that never quenches thirst.

The musician plays his waltz. Doesn’t see or understand.

He just stands, pressing his shoulder to the birch tree’s bark.

And the branches of that birch replace the fingers on his hand,

And his birch eyes are morose, stern, dismal, and dark.

Before him, there is a pine, waiting for spring to arrive.

The musician melds with earth. The waltz notes start to pour…

And his slender legs appear to be like the roots of that pine

Beneath the soil, they can’t unwind, entangling more and more.

For a century, there’s music, our affair is never done.

Tied itself into a know, a constant flame ablaze.

Why don’t we all go back home! We need to regain our calm…

But you are looking up at him. And the musician plays.