Song picture
"I will not wander...," poem by Sergei Esenin
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Orchestra and tenor voice
esenin russian tenor
Artist picture
Composer for large-scale performance work, ballet and opera. Have written music for classical theatrical productions of Shakespeare, ("The Tempest," "The Twelft
Loren Lieberman is a native of Denver, Colorado, now living on the West Coast in California, where he is best known for his work as an actor in Classical and Shakespearean Theatre. He has a degree from Sonoma State University in Theatre Arts, and has been an Honor's Music Composition Student at the College of Marin, Santa Rosa Junior College, and at Sonoma State University. He has won an award for composition from the Redwood Empire Music Association. He has recently completed an opera in Russian, based on the novel by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, "Cancer Ward", (and of the same name), and is currently working on his fourth opera, based on the Classical Tragedy by Sophocles, "Oedipus the King," with a libretto in Ancient Greek. His interest in languages has shaped much of his artistic temperment, and he is self taught in Russian and Sanskrit, and has hopes to begin his next opera, Shakespeare's, "Romeo and Juliet," in Hindi.
Song Info
Genre
Classical • Opera
Charts
Peak #84
Peak in subgenre #4
Author
Esenin/Masaru Yonemitsu
Rights
adhikapokoya 2011
Uploaded
May 26, 2015
Track Files
MP3
MP3 4.8 MB • 160 kbps • 4:12
Story behind the song
The composition is in the original Russian. A translation, found on-line follows. It, (the translation), is uneven, sometimes matching the poem well, at other times, distorted for, "rhyme."
Lyrics
I will not be wandering about Trampling goosefoot in the bushes any more; And I know you’ll never come around In my dreams, oat-haired, as before. You were tender beautiful and fair, Berry juice upon your skin, so light. You resembled rosy sunset glare, And, like snow, you were lustrous, fair and bright. Having shed their grain your eyes are fading, And your name has melted like the sound of chimes; But the folders of your crumpled shawl and veiling Have retained the smell of honey from your arms. When it’s quiet and the sunset smartens, Like a kitten, washing up its face. I can hear the honeycomb-like patterns Chat about you, along with wind and haze. Well, the evening tells me you are oderous, Like a dream, a flower and sweet song ... After all, who has designed your waist, your shoulders Apprehending holy secret all along? I will not be wandering about Trampling goosefoot in the bushes any more; And I know you’ll never come around In my dreams, oat-haired, as before. 1916
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