Песнь о хлебе (Song of the Bread, Sergei Jessenin)

Folk Metal, Epic Melodic Metal, Industrial, Russian poem

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[Verse 1]
Вот она, суровая жестокость,
Где весь подлесок в раззолоте!
Резьбой берез обезображен рокот,
И облака плывут, как на охоте.

[Verse 2]
Слышите? Гулкий падает туман.
Это избытку хлеба не на радость.
На конях осени примчался ураган
И закрутил березовую младость.

[Verse 3]
Зубами кос в предчувствии беды
Срезают сочные, тугие стебли.
Как будто бы из вспоротой узды
Кровь золотая льется на гребли.

[Pre-Chorus]
Steel does not care for the summer’s breath,
Gear does not weep for the harvest death.
We’re just fuel for the iron road,
Bearing the weight of an ancient load.

[Chorus]
Holy bread, from golden blood,
Crushed between the stone and flood.
In a world of cold design,
We are grist within the line.
Bread is life, and life is pain,
Bless the mill, and bless the grain.

[Verse 4]
Не за то ль, что на полях в страде
Овес, как сор, в подножье брошен,
Смеется рожь в осенней бороде,
Что колос ее золотом порошен?

[Verse 5]
Никогда не забуду я дня,
Когда в поле, в степном просторе,
Слышал я, как коса, звеня,
Резала хлеб в немом раздоре.

[Pre-Chorus]
Steel does not care for the summer’s breath,
Gear does not weep for the harvest death.
We’re just fuel for the iron road,
Bearing the weight of an ancient load.

[instrumental solo]

[Outro]
The stone turns on, the world turns gray,
Dust of the grain is all we stay.

(English translation of the Russian poem)

Behold it there, the harsh and cruel might,
Where all the undergrowth is turned to gold!
The birches’ carving mars the roar of light,
As clouds like hunters drift across the wold.

Do you not hear? The heavy fog descends.
It brings no joy to harvests’ rich excess.
On autumn’s steeds the hurricane attends,
To whirl away the birches’ youthfulness.

With teeth of scythes, foreboding coming ill,
They cut the juicy, tightly-fastened stems.
As if from severed reins that blood should spill,
The golden blood flows down in stratagems.

Is it not why, in labor’s bitter field,
The oats like refuse at the feet are cast?
The rye laughs in its beard, its fate is sealed,
With golden dust upon its ear at last.

Never shall I forget that somber day,
When in the fields, beneath the steppe's wide sky,
I heard the scythe, its ringing, clashing play,
Cutting the bread in silent strife to die.

2471/7500

[Verse 1] Вот она, суровая жестокость, Где весь подлесок в раззолоте! Резьбой берез обезображен рокот, И облака плывут, как на охоте. [Verse 2] Слышите? Гулкий падает туман. Это избытку хлеба не на радость. На конях осени примчался ураган И закрутил березовую младость. [Verse 3] Зубами кос в предчувствии беды Срезают сочные, тугие стебли. Как будто бы из вспоротой узды Кровь золотая льется на гребли. [Pre-Chorus] Steel does not care for the summer’s breath, Gear does not weep for the harvest death. We’re just fuel for the iron road, Bearing the weight of an ancient load. [Chorus] Holy bread, from golden blood, Crushed between the stone and flood. In a world of cold design, We are grist within the line. Bread is life, and life is pain, Bless the mill, and bless the grain. [Verse 4] Не за то ль, что на полях в страде Овес, как сор, в подножье брошен, Смеется рожь в осенней бороде, Что колос ее золотом порошен? [Verse 5] Никогда не забуду я дня, Когда в поле, в степном просторе, Слышал я, как коса, звеня, Резала хлеб в немом раздоре. [Pre-Chorus] Steel does not care for the summer’s breath, Gear does not weep for the harvest death. We’re just fuel for the iron road, Bearing the weight of an ancient load. [Chorus] Holy bread, from golden blood, Crushed between the stone and flood. In a world of cold design, We are grist within the line. Bread is life, and life is pain, Bless the mill, and bless the grain. [instrumental solo] [Outro] The stone turns on, the world turns gray, Dust of the grain is all we stay. -- (English translation of the Russian poem) Behold it there, the harsh and cruel might, Where all the undergrowth is turned to gold! The birches’ carving mars the roar of light, As clouds like hunters drift across the wold. Do you not hear? The heavy fog descends. It brings no joy to harvests’ rich excess. On autumn’s steeds the hurricane attends, To whirl away the birches’ youthfulness. With teeth of scythes, foreboding coming ill, They cut the juicy, tightly-fastened stems. As if from severed reins that blood should spill, The golden blood flows down in stratagems. Is it not why, in labor’s bitter field, The oats like refuse at the feet are cast? The rye laughs in its beard, its fate is sealed, With golden dust upon its ear at last. Never shall I forget that somber day, When in the fields, beneath the steppe's wide sky, I heard the scythe, its ringing, clashing play, Cutting the bread in silent strife to die.

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