R.Rozhdestvensky, That's A Lie... - Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

That's a lie, that Time is passing away...
In that case - we are passing.
Along the immovable time.
Along its long-lasting valleys.
By the forgotten sledges among the siberian winter.
By the Irtysh-river reaches with an unrepeatable wind.
There, behind our backs -
there is a Dark from four sides of the world.
And also - the lone tree, bowed awkwardly.
Below the lightless bombs -
the hoar-frosted platform.
Hands, which were unable to stretch to the rationed bread.
There, behind our backs -
the deepness of snow.
There our burned shoulders
are growing stiff from pain.
Above the darkened town -
a song:

'Stand up, co-o-o-ountry-y-y! ...'
'A-a-a-a-a...' - it's booming, as if in the empty temple...
We are leaving our past.
Sand is crunching in the teeth.
Rusty bush bristles transparently along the road.
And we lose on it the pieces of our father's shirts.
And put on the synthetic materials, bad to our health.
Tread our way to border, behind it -
the short-lasting tears of our spouses.

Wild noon.
Inaudible boom of thunder.
Hospitals,
where we would be carried out from...
A grey-haired conductor,
and a trombonist,
licking his lips, got too dry...
The road - in a spiral mode.
The road - in a ring mode.
But - having got a lunch with potatoes or boiled buckwheat -
the history of Mankind
till his self end
everybody is going inside the time.

Everybody is going.
Every body.
And everybody is bearing - in turn -
darkness or light.
We are measuring our road
with our own foot.
Because it is stated long-long ago,
that man's experience is only
the reiteration of mistakes...
And we are going to horizon.
We are caughing.
Get up early.
Open the schools and the monuments,
the stars and the shops...

It is lie, that we are growing old!
We only - become tired.
And silently - go aside,
when we lose our power.