Lyrics of Till En Vildmarkspoet - Александр Рыбак

Till En Vildmarkspoet (original)

Och snön föll vit i vinterskog
där räven stod på lur
för tystnaden i blånad vildmarkstrakt.
Här dröjde du vid kojans eld
och drömde om en vår
och skrev din sång och höll vid milan vakt.
Nu porlar den i vårens tid
din fors i milsvid skog!
Nu surrar den av bin din sommaräng!
Jag anar spår av kärva steg
som trötta spelmän tog
och rosors blod
i ton från sorgens sträng.
Än sjunger vinden vida,
när hösten brinner röd,
din sång om livets villkor,
om kamp för hem och bröd.
Nu porlar den i vårens tid
din fors i milsvid skog!
Nu surrar den av bin
din sommaräng!
Jag anar spår av kärva steg
som trötta spelmän tog
och rosors blod
i ton från sorgens sträng.
Du vandrare, du speleman,
du kung i tiggardräkt,
du brann i natten fylld av köld och is.
Den eld som brann den värmer än,
din saga och din dikt
om evig sol och sommarparadis.
Nu porlar den i vårens tid
din fors i milsvid skog!
Nu surrar den av bin din sommaräng!
Jag anar spår av kärva steg
som trötta spelmän tog
och rosors blod
i ton från sorgens sträng.
Än sjunger vinden vida,
när hösten brinner röd,
din sång om livets villkor,
om kamp för hem och bröd.
Nu porlar den i vårens tid
din fors i milsvid skog!
Nu surrar den av bin
din sommaräng!
Jag anar spår av kärva steg
som trötta spelmän tog
och rosors blod
i ton från sorgens sträng.
The snow fell white in Winter´s woods
where foxes stood on guard,
in silence in the timber-cutters gash
In patient watch you also stood,
as charcoal slowly charred,
composing verse while embers turned to ash.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide.
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
The wild winds sing their sombre tones
when Autumn turns to red.
The song of tribulation,
the fight for daily bread.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide,
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
A wanderer, a minstrel man,
a king, though clad in rags.
A charcoal burner, midst the snow and ice.
The flame you lit still spreads your heat
in stories and in verse
on sunlight in a Summer paradise.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide.
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
The wild winds sing their sombre tones
when Autumn turns to red.
The song of tribulation,
the fight for daily bread.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide,
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.

(translation)

And the snow fell white in winter forest
where the fox was lurking
for the silence in the blue wilderness area.
Here you lingered by the fire of the hut
and dreamed of a spring
and wrote your song and kept at the milan guard.
Now it is bubbling in the spring time
your rapids in miles of forest!
Now it buzzes with bees your summer meadow!
I sense traces of hard steps
which tired fiddlers took
and the blood of roses
in tone from the string of sorrow.
The wind still sings far,
when autumn burns red,
your song about the conditions of life,
about struggle for home and bread.
Now it is bubbling in the spring time
your rapids in miles of forest!
Now it is buzzing with bees
your summer meadow!
I sense traces of hard steps
which tired fiddlers took
and the blood of roses
in tone from the string of sorrow.
You walker, you fiddler,
you king in beggar costume,
you burned in the night filled with cold and ice.
The fire that burned it is still heating,
your fairy tale and your poem
about eternal sun and summer paradise.
Now it is bubbling in the spring time
your rapids in miles of forest!
Now it buzzes with bees your summer meadow!
I sense traces of hard steps
which tired fiddlers took
and the blood of roses
in tone from the string of sorrow.
The wind still sings far,
when autumn burns red,
your song about the conditions of life,
about struggle for home and bread.
Now it is bubbling in the spring time
your rapids in miles of forest!
Now it is buzzing with bees
your summer meadow!
I sense traces of hard steps
which tired fiddlers took
and the blood of roses
in tone from the string of sorrow.
The snow fell white in Winter´s woods
where foxes stood on guard,
in silence in the timber-cutters gash
In patient watch you also stood,
as charcoal slowly charred,
composing verse while embers turned to ash.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide.
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
The wild winds sing their sombre tones
when Autumn turns to red.
The song of tribulation,
the fight for daily bread.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide,
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
A wanderer, a minstrel man,
a king, though clad in rags.
A charcoal burner, midst the snow and ice.
The flame you lit still spreads your heat
in stories and in verses
on sunlight in a Summer paradise.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide.
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.
The wild winds sing their sombre tones
when Autumn turns to red.
The song of tribulation,
the fight for daily bread.
Loud ripples from the river-bed.
The forest stretches wide,
The busy bees are buzzing now it´s Spring.
I sense the sound of heavy tread
as tired fiddlers stride,
and roses bleed in tune with sorrow´s strings.