Original: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdtYahQ2qVo

Words: http://www.bards.ru/archives/part.php?id=17923

My translation:
In a flask of dark glass
Holding an imported beer
A red rose bloomed
Proudly and unhurriedly.

I have composed a little
Of a historical novel
Forcing my way, as if through fog
From the prologue to the epilogue.

Chorus:
Everyone writes what he hears,
Everyone hears like he breathes,
As he breathes, he writes
Not trying to please…
Just as nature wanted,
Why? It’s not our business.
For what reason – not ours to judge.


The far-away places were blue,
There was fiction in abundance,
And I plucked a thread 
From my own fate.

I equipped myself for the path of heroes
I contemplated, aided by the past,
And imagined myself
A retired lieutenant.

(Chorus)

Fiction isn’t a deception;
The idea isn’t the point.
Let a novel be fully written
Until its last page.
And while the red rose 
Still lives in its bottle
Let us cry out the words 
That have long been banked away.


(chorus)

talia lavin