Бабушки

Let’s forgive the fathers’ weary negligence,
And mothers’ crazy tenderness let’s forgive —
They have no time for taking care of the kids.
And Russia totally depends on grannies,
The whole of Russia is in grannies, like in
The domes of our moral sense remains.

We usually light-heartedly ignore them,
And yet, we value them extremely high,
And therefore there is no unemployment
For grannies in the enigmatic land.

With eyes forgivingly subdued,
They huddle in the corners of the homes,
Like washing or like cuddling machines,
Machines that secretly cry at night.
Like washing or like cuddling machines,
Machines that secretly cry at night.

Our century is cruel and devoid of indulgence.
And even in the softness we are rude,
Thank goodness — grannies walk on the earth
So softly, as if just gathering mushrooms.

And grannies, washing or just cooking,
When longing for childhood makes them go back,
Return to childhood, like strange rivers,
Which flow the other way around.
Return to childhood, like strange rivers,
Which flow the other way around.

Being the witnesses of all world’s follies,
Among the diapers, dishes, and soup plates,
As quietest cressets of good reason,
They proudly hold high their gray heads.

And immortal Arina Rodionovnas,
Walking with prams along the parks,

Push the snub-nosed hopes of our native land,
Push forward them… before themselves.
The snub-nosed hopes of our native land,
Push forward them… before themselves.
Push forward them… before themselves.