Po Tundre

Mixes

Po Tundre

Eto bylo vesnoju, v zelenejushchem maje,
Kogda tundra prosnulas’, razvernulas’ kovrom.
My bezhali s toboju, zamochiv vertuxaja.
My bezhali iz zony, pokati nas sharom.

Po tundre, po zheleznoj doroge.
Gde mchitsja pojezd Vorkuta-Leningrad.

Lebedinye stai nam navstrechu leteli,
Nam na jug, im na sever – kazhdyj xochet v svoj dom.
Eta tundra bez kraja, eti redkie eli,
Etot den’ beskonechnyj – nog ne chuja, bredjom.

Po tundre, po zheleznoj doroge.
Gde mchitsja pojezd Vorkuta-Leningrad.

Dozhdik kapal na rylo i na dulo nagana,
Laj ovcharok vsjo blizhe, avtomaty stuchat.
Ja tebja ne uvizhu, moja rodnaja mama.
VOXRA nas okruzhila, "Ruki v goru!" krichat.

V doxlom severnom nebe voron kruzhit i karchet,
Ne byvat’ nam na vole, zhizn’ prozhita zazrja.
Mat’-starushka uznaet i tixon’ko zaplachet:
U vsex deti kak deti, a jejo – v lagerjax.

Pozdno noch’ju zatixnet nash barak posle shmona,
Mirno spit u parashi doxodjaga-marksist.
Predo mnoj, kak ikona, zapretnaja zona.
A na vyshke majachit ochumelyj chekist.

Po tundre, po zheleznoj doroge,
Gde mchitsja pojezd Vorkuta-Leningrad.

Vorkuta Prison Blues

It happened in springtime, in the blossoming month of May,
When the tundra arose and bloomed like a carpet.
We made a run for it after we iced the jail guard,
We ran from the prison camp – you could knock us over with a feather.

Along the tundra, along the railroad
Where the Vorkuta-Leningrad train rolls on by.

Flocks of swans fly towards us – we’re headed south,
They’re headed north, everyone wants to go home –
This boundless tundra, these scraggly fir trees,
This day without end – we plod on, not feeling our feet.

Along the tundra, along the railroad
Where the Vorkuta-Leningrad train rolls on by.

A rain shower fell on our ugly mugs and on the the barrel of the gun,
The barking of the guard dogs is ever closer, their machine guns bang out.
I won’t ever see you, my dear mother,
The prison guards have surrounded us and they yell, "hands up!"

In the dead northern sky a raven circles and caws,
We’re not fated to be free men, we’ve lived our lives for nothing.
Our old mothers will find out and quietly weep –
Everyone else has normal kids, but hers are in the camps.

Late at night our barracks quiet down after the nightly search,
The starving white-collar criminal is sleeping by the slop bucket.
In front of me like an icon lies the forbidden prison camp zone,
And outside the damn prison guard is on patrol.