Once it was resonant, like a bird, Like a spring it flowed and rang out, As though it wished to pour itself out, all radiance, Along the steel wire
And then, like a distant sobbing,
Like a farewell to the soul's joy,
It began to sound, full of repentance,
And vanished in some unknown backwoods.
It perished in some wild field,
Buried under a merciless blizzard...
And my soul cries out in pain,
And my black telephone is silent.
Literal translation
"A Voice on the Telephone", Nikolai Zabolotsky, 1957.
In the photograph of 1958: Gosha the bear and the trainer Ivan Kudryavtsev.
And when did you last hear in your telephone the voices of people close to you, and not of the operators of the service for relieving the population of its money?
