Зима в лесуZima v lesu

Winter in the Forest

There is no freedom in nature.

Russian5:20

Tarkovsky wrote “There is no freedom in nature…” in 1973; it was printed in his Izbrannoye (“Selected poems”) of 1982.

The boyar Kolychev of its last stanza is Metropolitan Philip, born Fyodor Kolychev. He became Metropolitan of Moscow in 1566 on condition that the oprichnina be abolished, in March 1568 refused to bless Ivan the Terrible and publicly condemned the terror, and was deposed on false charges and, in 1569, strangled by Malyuta Skuratov.

Behind the scenes

The song ends, as “Insomnia”“Insomnia” does, on what some call a “lazy” fade-out, so I am lazy twice on this album. It tormented me creatively (as did, really, the album having two similar, loosely speaking, “ballads”), but I found nothing better.

Lyrics

The translation is a crib, not a singing version.

Свободы нет в природе,
Svobody net v prirode,
Её соблазн исчез,
Yeyo soblazn ischez,
Не надо на свободе
Ne nado na svobode
Смущать ноябрьский лес.
Smushchatʼ noyabrʼskiy les.
Застыли в смертном сраме
Zastyli v smertnom srame
Над собственной листвой
Nad sobstvennoy listvoy
Осины вверх ногами
Osiny vverkh nogami
И в землю головой.
I v zemlyu golovoy.
В рубахе погорельца
V rubakhe pogorelʼtsa
Идёт Мороз-кащей,
Idyot Moroz-kashchey,
Прищёлкивая тельца
Prishcholkivaya telʼtsa
Опавших желудей.
Opavshikh zheludey.
А дуб в кафтане рваном
A dub v kaftane rvanom
Стоит, на смерть готов,
Stoit, na smertʼ gotov,
Как перед Иоанном
Kak pered Ioannom
Боярин Колычев.
Boyarin Kolychev.
Прощай, великолепье
Proshchay, velikolepʼye
Багряного плаща!
Bagryanogo plashcha!
Кленовое отрепье
Klenovoye otrepʼye
Слетело, трепеща,
Sletelo, trepeshcha,
В кувшине кислорода
V kuvshine kisloroda
Истлело на весу...
Istlelo na vesu...
Какая там свобода,
Kakaya tam svoboda,
Когда зима в лесу.
Kogda zima v lesu.
Когда зима в лесу.
Kogda zima v lesu.
There is no freedom in nature,
Its temptation is gone,
There is no need to trouble
The November forest with freedom.
Frozen in deathly shame
Above their own fallen leaves
Are the aspens, upside down
And head into the ground.
In a burnt-out man’s shirt
walks by,
Cracking the little bodies
Of fallen acorns.
And the oak in a torn caftan
Stands ready for death,
Like
Before .
Farewell, magnificence
Of the crimson cloak!
The maple rags
Have flown off, trembling,
In a jug of oxygen
They mouldered in mid-air...
What freedom can there be
When it is winter in the forest.
When it is winter in the forest.

Music: Vova Zakharov

Lyrics: Arseny Tarkovsky