Андрей Макаревич - На сопках Маньчжурии
текст песни

On a foul-mouthed Saturday night at the tavern,
A monkey slept on the organ grinder's shoulder,
And when she woke, her eerie eyes
Expressed an almost human despair,
And the organ grinder blared about the Manchurian hills,
And Tamarka the barmaid was very sad...

— The sorghum sleeps,
The hills are shrouded in mist...

They also trawled at Tomka's,
And not Tomka—they called her Tomochka,
Kissed their darling in the sedge,
And it smelled not of beer, but of April,
Perhaps he really did vanish on that hill, chopped up and shot?!

— The moon shone from behind the clouds,
The graves keep peace...

And the last organ grinder—a remnant of the empire,
Kept dusting before Tomka with peacock feathers,
He, the skin, broke out his bourgeois manners—
Now, he says, warm beer, now cool meat,
And the organ grinder whistled about Manchurian hills,
And a rented monkey slept on my shoulder...

— It's quiet all around,
The wind has blown away the fog...

And sharing their melancholy, like profits,
The whores sang along with the drunks,
And the organ grinder, the bastard, ate hashish,
He winked charmingly at the drunks:
Like, your money will be ours,
Like, what's nice for you is good for me!

"On the hills of Manchuria, warriors sleep,
And the tears of the Russians are not heard..."

And around ten o'clock, or maybe even earlier,
A strange eccentric appeared in the tavern.
He looked like a boy who had suddenly aged.
For a story published in a certain magazine,
A fat-faced scoundrel with the eyes of a liar
Declared the eccentric—publicly—a liar!

"Let the sorghum
bring us dreams..."

The eccentric sat down at the table and pressed himself into the corner,
and lightly tapped his fingers,
and said he'd rest a bit,
after a pause, he added tensely, "If there's Borjomi, then for God's sake,
give me a bottle of Borjomi..."

"Sleep, heroes of the Russian land,
sons of our dear fatherland..."

The monkey woke up, softly clicking,
staring at the guest sitting nearby,
and Tamara, the barmaid—a real bitch—
shaken her piebald hair in embarrassment,
and said, "Sorry, but we're not a cafeteria,
just wait, I'll run to the corner..."

"The sorghum sleeps,
the hills are shrouded in mist..."

And the eccentric looked at the monkey,
with his fingers He tapped out Morse code,
As if he were calling her for help,
Marveling at his homelessness,
As if he were asking, "Will you remember?"
And she nodded, "Yes, I will."

— The moon shone from behind the clouds,
The graves keep their peace…

The organ grinder pushed the organ aside with his boot,
Tamara ran in with a bottle of Borjomi,
And she poured the eccentric half a glass herself,
(Such honors were unknown in the dive),
And Tamara, looking straight at the organ grinder,
Ordered, "Play—the man is alone."

— It's quiet all around,
The wind has blown away the fog...

The whores and drunks fell silent,
Only the flies rustled their wings...
For some reason, it became very quiet,
A strange moment arrived—
An incomprehensible, alien misery—
For some reason became a common misery!

—On the hills of Manchuria, warriors sleep,
And no Russian tears are heard...

Nothing exploded in silence, no curses, no lies,
The monkey wheezed with scorched bronchi,
And the organ grinder, forgetting his lordly chatter,
He himself ordered—play, but keep quiet—
And almost inaudibly said: "Thank you!" -
The eccentric leaned over Tamarka's hand...

"Let the sorghum
bring us dreams..."

And the eccentric left without taking change,
Wishing everyone in the tavern good luck...
What a strange era:
We don't burn in the fire—we drown in a puddle!
The monkey had it very bad,
The man had it much worse!

"Sleep, heroes of the Russian land,
Sons of our native homeland..."