Get all 13 Evgeny Skurat - Chronos ensemble releases available on Bandcamp and save 25%.
Includes unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app, plus high-quality downloads of The life of the Virgin - Old Slavonic, Georgian and European polyphony (remastered), Coptic, Syrian & Gregorian Christmas Hymns (life), N. Myaskovsky & M. Weinberg - From the lyrics of E. Baratynsky, World Christmas music from Perotin to Messiaen (life), Ballads & Fairy Songs, Thousand years of sacred music (life), Life of the Savior, Old Slavonic polyphony of the Passion service, and 5 more.
1. |
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My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud...
My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud,
but I am living; somewhere in the world
someone looks kindly on my life; far off
a distant fellow-man will read my words
and find my being; and, who knows, my soul
will raise an echo in his soul, and I
who found a friend in my own time,
will find a reader in posterity.
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2. |
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A wonderful city will sometimes merge
From flying clouds;
But only the wind will touch him
It will disappear without a trace.
So instant creatures
Poetic dreams
Disappear from breath
Extraneous vanity.
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3. |
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I did not blinded with the Muse, my dear:
She'll not be called the beauty, charming heart,
And throngs of youths, when sought her passing here,
As crazy lovers, will not run behind.
She has not any wish or gift to raise desires
By plays of eyes, by elegant attires,
Or by the clever and sarcastic speech;
But, the high world could sometimes be bewitched
By singularity of whole her expression,
By simple structure of her quiet phrase;
And, rather than with biting alienation,
It'll honour her with the negligent praise.
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4. |
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Sacred song heals the sick spirit.
The mysterious power of harmony
Will expiate a heavy delusion
And tame a revolting desire.
The soul of a singer expressed with a concordance
Is freed from all its woes,
And the sacred poetry will give purity
And peace to its companion.
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5. |
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I used to listen to my cheer sounds echoes in the wood
Feeling amused and happy.
Then tender lyrics filled my days of youth -
Another time has come
Replacing echoes of the wood.
The play of verses, golden game
With their loving touch…
All things are passing
The harmony of verses no longer captivates my mind
Nor seeks my soul echoes in the wood or rhythms of tender lyrics.
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6. |
A naiad
01:45
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There’s a grotto where a naiad
Surrendering her languid beauty to the noon nap.
I often see that gorgeous leafy bed
Which lets the naked nymphet rest
Bending her arm under the white forehead
That bears leafy crown of a sedge.
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7. |
The charm of beauty
01:40
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The charm of beauty, beauty charm
With confidence and love -
You never call us like the sun,
To restless fuss;
You lure us instead, and make us look above
From valleys to the moon,
And fill the soul with the love, the harmony and calm.
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8. |
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9. |
My talent is pitiful
02:22
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My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud...
My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud,
but I am living; somewhere in the world
someone looks kindly on my life; far off
a distant fellow-man will read my words
and find my being; and, who knows, my soul
will raise an echo in his soul, and I
who found a friend in my own time,
will find a reader in posterity.
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10. |
The Old man
02:04
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By the exclusive roses of beauty
My young days were crowned.
But they are gone in idle happiness and pleasures -
My memories are full of speeches tender and lips that were full of passion…
The days have gone away dissolving passion with its longing glances.
And now, in my older days? - I’ll set a little dinner at the fireplace
In my secluded hut,
I’ll bring my friends together and put some wine.
Without longing for the wreath of roses unique of early days
I’m still happy in my old days adorned with wine.
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11. |
The waterfall
03:23
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Crash, crash from a dizzying height,
Gray torrent, never cease!
Marry your lingering roar
With the lingering echo of a valley.
I hear the North wind whistle
Rocking the creaking pines,
And your rebellious thunder
Chimes with the thundering storm.
Why do I pay you heed
With such wild expectation?
Why does my breast tremble
With some premonition?
As if entranced, I stand
Above your steaming depths,
And my heart seems to comprehend
Your wordless utterance.
Crash, crash from a dizzying height,
Gray torrent, never cease!
Marry your lingering roar
With the lingering echo of a valley.
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12. |
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I have known them, storms, bad weather,
but I was young then, was another!
When day is dark and time oppresses,
Up from the breast a strong sigh rises
and spills out in a song of freedom,
scattering grief and care in singing!
But when the century brings old age
coupled with an avenging fate,
no vigorous sigh can then unseat
these twin weights from the weary breast:
in vain you seek to harmonise
white hair and a sombre mind!
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13. |
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With how much experience, emotions and feelings the quick days of your life are filled!
You’ve burned yourself in the rebellious flame of passion
Being a slave of anxious dreams!
Amid the void of emptiness and sorrow
Is there anything your soul’s longing for?
Look at yourself - you cry like Magdalene
And laugh like a mermaid found in the river!
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14. |
The spring has come!
03:00
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The spring has come! The air reveals...
The spring has come! The air reveals
Full brightness of the skies!
How nice because of such a light
The azure blinds my eyes!
The spring has come! How very high,
Caressed with sunny beams,
The clouds float in the sky
Conveyed by balmy winds!
The soil is wet, the brooks are mad;
The river roars and rolls,
On its exultant mighty back
It bears along ice-floes.
In spite the woods are barren yet
Dry leaves in groves of prime
Turn fragrant rustled underfeet
As at the former time.
The flown up to a sunny height
Unseen the sky-larks sing
A hymn of ultimate delight
In beauties of the spring.
What’s happened with my soul, indeed?
To babble with brooks it needs!
Together with the birds it sings
And in the skies it flits!
Why is it glad to such extent
With feasting of the prime?
Is it a child of habitat,
The poor soul of mine?
The reason doesn’t matter, — why?
A man is just content
With nature’s holiday divine —
From thoughts he’s made exempt.
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15. |
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My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud...
My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud,
but I am living; somewhere in the world
someone looks kindly on my life; far off
a distant fellow-man will read my words
and find my being; and, who knows, my soul
will raise an echo in his soul, and I
who found a friend in my own time,
will find a reader in posterity.
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