SERGEI PROKOFIEV

SUNLIGHT FILLED THE ROOM

Sunlight filled the room
Shot through with yellow dust.
I woke up and remembered:
Today’s your birthday!
Far beyond the windows
The warmed snow gleamed,
That’s why I slept dreamlessly,
Like a penitent.

ABOUT REAL TENDERNESS

Real tenderness can’t be confused with anything, and it is silent.
You carefully muffle your passion in vain: my shoulders and bosom thrill.
And in vain do you utter submissive words of first love.
How I know these obstinate, unsatisfied looks of yours…

THOUGHTS OF THE SUNLIGHT

Thoughts of the sunlight get dimmer and fainter,
And parched the grass.
Breezes, fresh breezes at dawn’s early shimmer,
Flit by, repass.
Look at the willows fanning out against a clear heaven,
Cloudless and wide.
Better, far better not to be given thee for thy bride!
Thoughts of the daylight get dimmer and fainter.
What is this? Dark already? Can it be?
After night, the Winter will be here.

GREETINGS!

Greetings! Can you hear the quiet footstep to the right of the table?
Don’t write verses – I’ll come instead.
Surely you haven’t taken offence just like last time:
You say that you can’t see my hands, you can’t see my hands and eyes.
With you things are clear and simple…
Don’t chase me away to where, under the stifling arch of the bridge,
Dirty water has frozen over.

THE GREY-EYED KING

Welcome art thou, unappeasable pain!
Last night my king with the grey eyes was slain.
Sultry the skies of the autumn and red;
Home came my husband at evening and said:
‘Listen, the huntsmen, when cover was broke,
Found him, his body lay under an oak.
Woe to this princess! She loved him they say.
Grief turned her tresses ere morning to grey.’
Surly, he lifted his pipe from the shelf,
Went to his night work and left me myself.
Daughter of mine, I will wake thee and say:
Bright little eyes that are trustful and grey,
Why should I heed what the poplar trees sing –
‘Nowhere on earth are the eyes of thy King’.