Бьется в тесной печурке огонь,
На поленьях смола, как слеза,
И поет мне в землянке гармонь
Про улыбку твою и глаза.
Про тебя мне шептали кусты
В белоснежных полях под Москвой.
Я хочу, чтобы слышала ты,
Как тоскует мой голос живой.
Ты сейчас далеко-далеко.
Между нами снега и снега.
До тебя мне дойти нелегко,
А до смерти — четыре шага.
Пой, гармоника, вьюге назло,
Заплутавшее счастье зови.
Мне в холодной землянке тепло
От твоей негасимой любви.
1942
Equirhythmic translation
In the close-fitting stove, flames are flickering,
The resin on the wood looks like tears,
In the funk hole, a squeezebox is singing
Of your beautiful eyes and your smile.
About you, bushes whisper ed to me
In the snow-white fields Moscow nearb y .
And I want you to hear my voice,
How it is very sad and alive.
You are now very far… far away.
And expanses of snow lie between.
It is so hard for me to reach you,
And there are only four steps to death.
Sing, harmonica, blizzards ignore,
Call out happiness wandering away.
I’m warm in this freezing funk hole
Thanks to your big unquenchable love.
And my love — a lighthouse in my soul,
I will carry through longings and fights,
So I could see, my dear, at last
Happy cheerful tears in your eyes.
In the close-fitting stove, flames are flickering,
The resin on the wood looks like tears,
In the funk hole, a squeezebox is singing
Of your beautiful eyes and your smile.
In the funk hole, a squeezebox is singing
Of your beautiful eyes and your smile.
1942
