I, oh, must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I, oh, must go on standing
I'm not my own, it's not my choice
Be afraid of the lame
They'll inherit your legs
Be afraid of the old
They'll inherit your souls
Be afraid of the cold
They'll inherit your blood
Apres moi, le deluge
After me comes the flood
I, oh, must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't, isn't yours, yours
I, oh, must go on standing
I'm not my own, it's not my choice
Be afraid of the lame
They'll inherit your legs
Be afraid of the old
They'll inherit your souls
Be afraid of the cold
They'll inherit your blood
Apres moi, le deluge
After me comes the flood
Be afraid of the lame
They'll inherit your legs
Be afraid of the old
They'll inherit your souls
Be afraid of the cold
They'll inherit your blood
Apres moi, le deluge
After me, the flood
Fevral, dostat chernil i plakat,
Pisat o Fevrale navzryd,
Poka grohochuschaya slyakot
Vesnoyu chornayu gorit. (x2) *
Be afraid of the lame
They'll inherit your legs
Be afraid of the old
They'll inherit your souls
Be afraid of the cold
They'll inherit your blood
Apres moi, le deluge
After me comes the flood
I, oh, must go on standing
You can't break that which isn't yours
I, oh, must go on standing
I'm not my own, it's not my choice
I, oh, must go on stan, standing, ding
You can't, can't break that, that which isn't, isn't yours, yours
I, oh, must go on stan, standing, dong
I'm not my, my own, own, it's not my, my choice
.
*(Russian-To-English:)
February. Get ink, shed tears.
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing,
While torrential slush that roars
Burns in the blackness of the spring.
.
The portion from Russian is from a Poem by Boris Pasternak -
.
Fevral'. Dostat' chernil i plakat'!
Pisat' o fevrale navzryd,
Poka grohochushaya slyakot'
Vesnoyu chernoyu gorit.
Dostat' proletku. Za shest' griven,
Chrez blagovest, chrez klik koles,
Perenestis' tuda, gde liven'
Eshe shumnei chernil i slez.
Gde, kak obuglennye grushi,
S derev'ev tysyachi grachei
Sorvutsya v luzhi i obrushat
Suhuyu grust' na dno ochei.
Pod nei protaliny cherneyut,
I veter krikami izryt,
I chem sluchainei, tem vernee
Slagayutsya stihi navzryd.
.
Translation -
.
Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping,
Of February, in sobs and ink,
Write poems, while the slush in thunder
Is burning in the black of spring.
Through clanking wheels, through church bells ringing
A hired cab will take you where
The town has ended, where the showers
Are louder still than ink and tears.
Where rooks, like charred pears, from the branches
In thousands break away, and sweep
Into the melting snow, instilling
Dry sadness into eyes that weep.
Beneath - the earth is black in puddles,
The wind with croaking screeches throbs,
And-the more randomly, the surer
Poems are forming out of sobs.
.
1912 Translated by Lydia Pasternak Slater
