Рождественский Баллада о красках - Translation

He was red-haired, like redhead mushroom stew.
So red-haired, as oranges on the snow too.
The mom joked, as she was the merriest one:
«I gave birth to my sonny from the sun... »

Another son of hers was black-haired so far,
Black-haired, black-haired so far as the burnt tar.
She laughed and said, when she was often asked:
«The night had been so much dusk!.. »

In forty-first, forty memorable year
the loudspeakers shouted the great grief here.
Both sons, two of them, the salt of the Earth —
bowed to their mother low.
And they left forth.

The young men had happened to feel the fights'
wild red fire and black smoke, red and black war lights,
evil greenery of stagnant fields of war,
and gray color of frontline hospitals' walls.

Both sons, both two sons, two wings, they fought then
till the Victory!
The mom waited for them.
She did not anger, she did not curse the fate.
A death notice
bypassed her house away.

She was lucky. Happiness suddenly struck.
In three villages, she was the one with luck.
She was lucky so. She was in luck's way! —
Both sons came back to the village one day.

Both sons. Flesh and build. Both sons are the best.
Golden medals can't be counted on their chests.
They sit near — shoulders are next to each other
Legs and arms are live — what else with the brothers?

They drink green wine, as usual with this age.
The color of the hairs of the sons has changed.
The color of their hairs became — deadly bleached!
It's clear,
in white paint
the war is rich.

22 June, 2024

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Photo: Robert Rozhdestvensky Author: Szalay Zolt;n From Wikimedia Commons