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In the Blindage

Music: K.Listov Lyrics: A.Surkov
Бьется в тесной печурке огонь,                   
На поленьях смола, как слеза.                    
И поет мне в землянке гармонь                    
Про улыбку твою и глаза.                         

Про тебя мне шептали кусты                       
В белоснежных полях под Москвой.                 
Я хочу, чтобы слышала ты,                        
Как тоскует мой голос живой.                     

Ты сейчас далеко, далеко,                        
Между нами снега и снега.                        
До тебя мне дойти не легко,                      
А до смерти - четыре шага.                       

Пой, гармоника, вьюге назло,                     
Заплутавшее счастье зови.                        
Мне в холодной землянке тепло                    
От моей негасимой любви.                         

English:                                         

Restless flames twist and toss in the stove,     
Resin shines on the wood like a tear,            
An accordeon sings about love,                   
And your eyes and your smile reappear.           

Bushes whispered about you to me,                
In these snow fields near Moscow, near home...   
Oh, my love, if it only could be,                
If you heard me here singing alone.              

You are far, far away at this hour.              
Snows between us and winter hard breath.         
To rejoin you is not in my power,                
Though just four steps divide me from death.     

Sing, accordeon, scorning the storm,             
Call back joy, drive off sorrow and doubt.       
It the cold of the dogout I am warm              
Of the fire of our love won't go out.          

One more variant:                                

The fire beats in the tiny hearth,               
On the logs, resin drips like a tear.            
An accordion, in the blindage, sings to me       
About you, your smile, and eyes.                 

The trees have whispered of you to me,           
In the snow-white plains of Moscow,              
I want you to hear just how much longs           
For you, my living voice.                        

You are now very far, very far,                  
Between us is snow and more snow                 
To reach you - the journey's so long,           
But to death, only four steps.                   

Sing, harmonica, in spite of the blizzard.       
And call for lost happiness.                     
I'm warm in this cold blindage,                 
From my everlasting love.
1942

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