Да будет свет!
Томск в обветшалых ботинках,
В пыльном дырявом пальто.
Город в седых паутинках,
Будто не жил в нем никто.
Строй заколоченных окон.
В избах пустынный покой.
Высохла жизнь, словно кокон,
Так и не став мотыльком.
Кладбище бревен и ставен.
На бок косится плетень.
Богом ли город оставлен?
Плесень. Разруха. И тень.
Зодчий машинной иголкой
Кружево шьет на века.
Край деревянного шелка
Вновь возрождает рука.
День наливается соком.
Свежесть и зелень кругом.
Вместо потушенных окон —
Светом обласканный дом.
Томск в обветшалых ботинках,
В пыльном дырявом пальто.
Город в седых паутинках,
Будто не жил в нем никто.
Строй заколоченных окон.
В избах пустынный покой.
Высохла жизнь, словно кокон,
Так и не став мотыльком.
Кладбище бревен и ставен.
На бок косится плетень.
Богом ли город оставлен?
Плесень. Разруха. И тень.
Зодчий машинной иголкой
Кружево шьет на века.
Край деревянного шелка
Вновь возрождает рука.
День наливается соком.
Свежесть и зелень кругом.
Вместо потушенных окон —
Светом обласканный дом.
Да будет свет!
Let there be light!
It's a senior citizen in the shabby shoes.
The silver webs on him remind the silk tissue.
His coat with big holes is covered in dust.
Tomsk no longer looks lively and robust.
The huts are deserted, destroyed and dumb.
The windows have long been boarded up.
A dried cocoon is the provincial life.
It will never become an alive butterfly.
Mold eats up houses in the dark night.
Hedges are leaned so much to one side.
It's a necropolis for shutters and logs.
But isn’t this place holy and God’s?
The master revives the old town again.
Wood silk is also a kind of skein,
That can be woven into durable lace.
Tomsk won't disappear without a trace.
This emerald town has the scent of fresh herbs.
The power of darkness and gloom is disturbed.
A ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds.
The lights will come on in every Tomsk house.
It's a senior citizen in the shabby shoes.
The silver webs on him remind the silk tissue.
His coat with big holes is covered in dust.
Tomsk no longer looks lively and robust.
The huts are deserted, destroyed and dumb.
The windows have long been boarded up.
A dried cocoon is the provincial life.
It will never become an alive butterfly.
Mold eats up houses in the dark night.
Hedges are leaned so much to one side.
It's a necropolis for shutters and logs.
But isn’t this place holy and God’s?
The master revives the old town again.
Wood silk is also a kind of skein,
That can be woven into durable lace.
Tomsk won't disappear without a trace.
This emerald town has the scent of fresh herbs.
The power of darkness and gloom is disturbed.
A ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds.
The lights will come on in every Tomsk house.
