In honor of Tu B’Shavat, we present this whimsical Jewish pastoral.

1
I take my feet under my arm,
I go, I walk, stride on,
to east and west and north and south,
I look for Birobidjan.
people give this advice – it’s a habit,
take a pack on your back,
and go forth like a rabbit!

To Madagascar, the land of grass and rabbits
and when the wind will blow,
to Madagascar. No meat there,
I know that from Genesis.
that’s where Adam the first man
started to mix in,
where Mother Eve can,
be curious too,
Ay Madagascar, may as well be there
that’s the thing to do.

2
The sun there bakes on pagodas
Winter hot snow falls
come in to all’s ready
don’t need to make a living
for people eat each other
So poof and you’re not there.

To Madagascar, the land of grass and rabbits
and when the wind will blow,
to Madagascar. No meat there,
I know that from Genesis.
that’s where Adam the first man
started to mix in,
where Mother Eve can,
be curious too,
Ay Madagascar, may as well be there
that’s the thing to do.

 

After my death mourn me this way:
‘There was a man-and see: he is no more;
before his time this man died
and his life’s song in mid-bar stopped;
and oh, it is sad! One more song he had
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!

And it is very sad!-a harp too he had
a living being and murmurous
and the poet in his words in it
all of his heart’s secret revealed,
and all the strings his hand gave breath
but one secret his heart kept hid,
round and round his fingers played,
and one string stayed mute,
mute to this day!

And it is sad, very sad!
All of her days this string moved,
mute she moved, mute she shook,
for her song, her beloved redeemer
she yearned, thirsted, grieved and longed
as a heart pines for its intended:
and though he hesitated each day she waited
and in a secret moan begged for him to come,
and he hesitated and never came,
never came!

And great, great is the pain!
There was a man-and see: he is no more,
and his life’s song in mid-bar stopped,
one more song he had to go,
and now the song is gone for good,
gone for good!

 

After the storm and tossing of the waves,
After all the dangers of the voyage,
There is no hesitation for the seamen
To enter the peaceful port.

Let it even be unknown!
Let it not be on the map!
The thought, the hope is delightful for them,
There to free themselves from troubles.

And if then they discover by a glance
On the shore, friends, kinsmen,
“Oh happiness!” they exclaim
And fly into their arms.

Life! thou art sea and tossing of the waves!
Death! thou art port and peace!
There will be the reunion
Of those separated here by the wave.

I see, I see… you beckon
Us to the mysterious shores!…
Dear shadows! Keep
A place near you for your friends!

We present this work in honor of the 100th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

There’s Prince Diego, falling in a love,
He dozed and he laid his head midst table’s stuff,
He lost his goblet, cast from silver’s milk,
And freed his jacket of a crimson silk.

And he is seeing the transparent stream,
And on the stream — the boat white as steam,
In which the trip, a lot of time ago,
His bride and he had had to undergo.

Space after space immediately springs
And, like two looks, burn two amazing rings;
But now sacred isles are seen in haze,
Where will resound the mysterious phrase,
And where, in wreaths of roses, at last,
They will be married by the Jesus Christ.

But at that time, the king has laid on him
The heavy look, where evil mixed with whim,
And jokers are adjusting to his heart,
The reddish pieces — flowers of blood,
And sexy bride with moderated rage,
Is kissing the impudent, lustful page.

We present this work in honor of the 205th anniversary of the poet’s death.

 

The river-time, in its fast currents,
Bears away all people’s deals,
And drowns kingdoms, kings, and countries,
In the forgetfulness’ abyss.

And if, due pipes’ or lyres’ greatness,
Shall anything remain of that,
It shall be gobbled by the endless,
And shall not dodge the common fate.

We present this work in honor of Russia’s National Day.

 

Hey there, Russia, mother country,
Cottages in icon guise…
Never-ending land of wonder,
Vistas blue that suck the eyes.

Like a passing holy pilgrim
On your fields I turn my gaze,
On the outskirts of poor villages
Rustling poplars pine and fade.

Smelling of sweet honey and apples
Churches celebrate the Lord
And the sounds of festive dancing
Fill the fields and meadows broad.

Off into the open country
Down a beaten path I run
And to meet me, light as catkins,
Peals of girlish laughter come.

If the heavenly host should beg me:
“Come to live in heaven above!”
I shall say: “Don’t give me heaven
But the Russia that I love.”

 

Floweret, faded and forsaken,
Fragile beauty of the lea,
Autumn’s cruel hand hath taken
All thy summer charms from thee.

Heigho! that the years must bring
This same destiny to all;
One by one our joys take wing,
One by one your petals fall.

So each evening rings the knell
Of some dream or rapture perished,
And the fleeting hours dispel
Each some vision fondly cherished.

Life’s illusions lie unmasked,
And the star of hope burns paler.
Has not some sage long since asked:
Men or blossoms — which are frailer?