On Jazz in Soviet Times – inspired by the novel „On the Sunny Side of the Street“ by Dina Rubina
Спросила мне: что за звук, похож на дыханье
над душистой травы, меж черешнями в полном цвету?
Ax, хочется плясать, и плакать, и улыбаться,
раствориться в той песне, превращаться совсем в тишину.
Что так неизвестно мне и так мне не хватает,
что мне привлекает нежными звучными руками?
Какое прекрасное чувство мне охватывает,
чьё имя выражать невозможно словами?
That's what she asked me on our way through the park,
on a warm April night, in the fragrance of sweet cherry trees,
dancing and running, a glittering will-o-wisp in the dark,
soaring on the tide of a fragile invisible breeze.
But I have no answer. I've been speechless too long,
and I don't trust in words any more than I trust in this night.
Just remember the rhythm, remember the tune of the song,
they're beauty, and beauty's the one thing that can't be denied.
This sound is a stranger, it travels the air,
like the night, like the spring, like we do.
Let it pass through your ears,
let it pass through your heart,
and maybe it will leave a trace there
on its way through.
She turned and she came back and put her small hand into mine,
just a few steps before we'd have reached the source of the song,
and she said: "Tы не хочешь, иль вернее: не можешь,
this garden is a place where we're strangers and do not belong."
In the warmth of her hand was a strength no vodka could give,
and her faith and her youth eased the pain in my soul and my body,
I opened my mouth, and said: "Нет чужее весны,
нет дальше доверии, нет ложнее свободы."
This sound is a stranger, traveling the air,
like the night, like the spring, like you are.
Let it pass through your ears,
let it pass through your heart,
and maybe it will lead you out there
в никуда.
Crystal, April 2009