Leonid Fjodorov - Мотыльки Лирицс транслатион то енглисх

The Moths

It was a year [when] we were moths, not blood-thirsty and light,
We plaited the River of Time into melodies and tunes.
Back then the Rver of Time was only as deep1 as a small stream,
And we could hear from the lighthouse: 'We'll meet soon, good-bye,
On the Moon, on the Moon,
In the land where we're all alive.'
 
And the small lights sang along: 'Here we are lying at the bottom of the river,
The firemen and the fishermen are black and ugly.
Discordant choir of the firemen and the fishermen from the fish burrows,
We don't know evil, we don't remember our home, we only sing piteously.
We sing about the Moon, about the Moon,
About the land where we're all alive.'
 
Then the moan sounded over the water: 'I'm not a fisherman, I'm a postman,
The clowns are all around me, the nameless jesters!
Can't understand them, can't help them. Get away, you mummers!
I'm here too, at the bottom of the river, I'm lacking a hand and a leg,
I'm all made of pain and sorrow,
My eyes are like plums.
Tell my relatives, let them mourn for me,
Don't let them mourn for me, I'll wait for them aside.
On the Moon, I'll wait on the moon,
In the land where we're all alive.'
 
And he howled so drawlingly, and it was clear he wasn't a fisherman.
He rather wept than sang:
'I've been captured here for so many years, and through the surface of the spring floods
I see everything the other way around and move backwards,
The tides drag me.
The house with ivy, the window in the wall and the curtain on the window -
Everything's blurred through the wave
Like on the Moon, in the wave like on the Moon,
Like in the land where we're all alive.'
 
Suddenly he burst into screaming: 'I'm not some kind of a wag!
I'm not like some others and I'm not a heel2! I'm all in sores!
The master of this silence allows me to have dreams,
But these are dreams from the Moon, but these are dreams from the Moon,
From the land,
From the land where we're all alive.'
 
Then he kind of tensed up and began to creep out to our shore.
Unable to get out to the shore, he still tries to crawl
And moves the spine of his brown back across the waves.
He has no way to the shore but he tries to crawl,
And the dirt runs down from his shoulders, yet he crawls, he croaks, laughing,
Across the moon, laughing, across the Moon,
Across the land where we're all alive.
 

• 1. Literally: thick
• 2. A word that has nothing to do with the context and is only there to rhyme with чета.

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