Я пишу исторический роман [Ya pishu istoricheskiy roman] [English translation]

To V. Aksenov

In a dark glass bottle

Under the imported beer

A red rose bloomed,

Proudly and slowly.

The historical novel

I wrote little by little,

Breaking, as if through a fog,

From prologue to epilogue.

Everyone writes what they hear

Everyone hears the way they breathe,

As they breathe, so they write

Not trying to please.

That's how nature wanted,

Why? - it's none of our business,

What for? - it's not for us to judge.

There were distant blue horizons,

There was fiction in abundance,

And of my own destiny

I was pulling the strings.

I equipped the heroes for travel

Made inquiries about the past

And a retired lieutenant

I imagined myself to be.

Everyone writes what they hear

Everyone hears the way they breathe,

As they breathe, so they write

Not trying to please.

That's how nature wanted,

Why? - it's none of our business,

What for? - it's not for us to judge.

Fiction is not scam,

Idea - still not the period.

Let me finish the novel

Until the last page.

And while it's still alive

The red rose in the bottle

Let me shout out words

That have been lying so long in the piggy bank.

Everyone writes what they hear

Everyone hears the way they breathe.