Part of a series or song cycle:
Bozh'ja mater' Utoli moja pechali
Pered grobom shla, svetla, tikha.
A za grobom - v traurnoj vuali
Shla nevesta, provozhaja zhenikha...
Byl on tol'ko literator modnyj,
Tol'ko slov koshchunstvennykh tvorec...
No mertvec - rodnoj dushe narodnoj:
Vsjakij svjato chtit ona konec.
I navstrechu klanjalis', krestili
Mnogodumnyj, mnogotrudnyj lob.
A druz'ja i blizkije pylili
Na ikonu, na neje, na grob...
I s kakoju beskonechnoj grust'ju
(Ne o nem - bog vest' o kom?)
Prinjala ona slova sochuvstvij
I venok sluchajnyj za venkom...
`Etikh fraz izbitykh povtoren'ja,
Nikomu ne nuzhnye slova -
Vozvela ona v venec tvoren'ja,
V tajnuju ulybku bozhestva...
Slovno zdes', gde peli i kadili,
Gde i grust' ne mozhet byt' tikha,
Ubralas' ona fatoj ot pyli
I zhdala Inogo Zhenikha...
The icon of Our Lady of Sorrows
Was borne in front of the coffin, radiant and quiet.
And behind the coffin, in mouring veil,
Walked the young bride, bidding farewell to the groom…
He had been nothing but a modish man of letters,
A creator of sacrilegious words…
But now he was dead, he was dear to the soul of the people:
For the people sacredly revere the death of any man.
Oncomers bowed their heads,
Crossing their pensive, toilsome brows.
And his friends and dear ones
Scattered dust on the icon, on her, on the coffin…
And with what infinite sadness
(Not for him – who knows for whom?)
Did she accept their words of sympathy,
And every casually proffered wreath.
These repeated, hackneyed phrases,
These words which nobody needs –
She has elevated them into acme of creation,
Into a divine and mysterious smile…
As if here, where people sang and offered incense,
Where even sorrow cannot be silent,
She clad herself in a wedding veil against the dust,
And awaited a bridegroom from another world…
Sorry, no further description available.
- 27 Oct 2017: Tchaikovsky: Andrei Bondarenko & Gary Matthewman
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