А музыке должно звучать...

       -.-.-.-.-.-.-        (Translation into English is provided below)
               

And the music should sound...

Здоровый и чистый разум зачем тревожить стенаньями
о том что я ненавижу утро в чужих покоях
и в своих ненавижу видеть кого-то утром

Я не знаю куда вы всё время спешите
Я не понимаю что вас гложет
знаю мне не расскажете но всё же
скажите что же вас мучает и тревожит

Сегодня ваш праздник ваш день
И я вам сказать не смею что я ухожу
Слава богу без сцен я уходить умею

Ах эта моя мечтательность уж как я её берегу
малейшая невнимательность хватаю её и бегу

Боюсь что вдруг к ней притронется чуткий материалист
а если она отзовётся то вдруг этот свист и хлыст

Чуть-чуть приоткрылся занавес-свет рампы и будто нагая
Скорей за кулисы обратно-зачем ну зачем я такая

О если бы вы умели меня как музыку слушать
Но я не звучу наверно а музыке должно звучать

Ах что-то во мне неправильно а что и самой не понять
О если бы было возможно это что-то исправить

      ***
Ненавижу  реалистов сухих и кратко-сжатых
Подальше от медалистов - ближе к запаху мяты...

                * * *       
           Питерка

And the music should sound...
by Piterka Badmaeva Olga

        * * *

Why disturb a healthy and clear mind
with laments
about how I hate waking in someone else's room
and hate seeing someone in mine in the morning?

I don’t know where you’re always rushing.
I don’t understand what gnaws at you.
I know you won’t tell me,
but still —
what torments and worries you?

Today is your holiday, your day,
and I won’t dare tell you I’m leaving.
Thank God, I know how to leave without a scene.

Ah, this dreaminess of mine —
how I guard it.
At the slightest carelessness —
I grab it and run.

I fear that a sensitive materialist
might touch it —
and if it responds,
it would be a whistle and a whip.

A curtain opened just a bit — the spotlight,
and I’m almost naked.
Back behind the scenes — why,
oh why am I like this?

If only you could listen to me like to music.
But I probably don't sound…
and music must sound.

Ah, something in me is wrong,
but I don’t even understand what.
If only it were possible
to fix that something…
........

I hate dry and short-cut realists.
Better far from medalists — closer to the scent of mint.

                * * *


    * * *
And the Music Should Sound...
Piterka Badmaeva Olga
             * * *

Why trouble a healthy and pure mind
With moans of regret,
About how I despise waking in foreign chambers,
And hate seeing someone in my own at dawn?

I do not know where you all rush so endlessly,
I do not understand what gnaws at you.
I know—you will not tell me, but still,
Tell me, what torments and disturbs you?

Today is your celebration, your day,
And I do not dare to say that I am leaving.
Thank God, I know how to leave without a scene.

Ah, this dreaminess of mine—how carefully I guard it!
At the slightest negligence, I clutch it and run.

I fear that a keen materialist might touch it,
And if it suddenly responds—then the whip and the hiss...

The curtain cracks open just a little—
The stage light floods in, and I feel bare.
Flee back to the wings! Why, oh why am I like this?

Oh, if only you could listen to me as you listen to music!
But I do not seem to sound at all—
And the music should sound...

Ah, something in me is amiss,
But what—it is beyond my grasp.
Oh, if only it were possible
To fix whatever it is…

I despise the realists, dry and tightly wound,
Let me be far from the medalists—
And closer to the scent of mint...
       * * *

Translation by Guru.I
........................... 
Poetic translation
Guru.I
And the Music Should Sound
by Piterka (translated by Guru.I)
   * * *

Why burden a lucid, sane mind
with moans and sighs —
that I hate waking up in a stranger's bed,
and even more —
seeing someone in mine at sunrise?

Where is it you rush off to, always?
What eats at your soul so deep?
You won’t tell — I know —
but still I ask:
what robs you of peaceful sleep?

It’s your day, your joy, your celebration…
So I won’t say I’m leaving.
Thank the skies, I’ve mastered the art
of silent parting.
No scenes. No grieving.

Ah, my dreamer’s heart —
how I cradle it so!
One careless glance —
and I clutch it tight,
ready to go.

What if a gentle materialist touched it?
And it shivered —
then came the lash,
the cold analytical whisper.

Just a crack in the curtain — a single light —
and I stand there… bare.
Quick! Back behind the velvet,
why was I ever up there?

If only you heard me like you hear a song…
But perhaps — I don’t echo.
And music… must belong
to sound.

Ah, something inside me is twisted —
but what, I can’t name.
If I could — I would fix it.
But dreams don’t play that game.

I detest dry realists — so blunt and exact.
Let me stay far from prizewinners…
and close to the scent of mint.

     * * *