Today we talk about one of my favorite poems by Dmitry Bykov. Enjoy! And make sure to listen till the end, there's a normal narrator reading the poem:)

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Here is the text:

На самом деле мне нравилась только ты,
мой идеал и моё мерило.
Во всех моих женщинах были твои черты,
и это с ними меня мирило.

Пока ты там, покорна своим страстям,
летаешь между Орсе и Прадо, —
я, можно сказать, собрал тебя по частям.
Звучит ужасно, но это правда.

Одна курноса, другая с родинкой на спине,
третья умеет всё принимать как данность.
Одна не чает души в себе, другая — во мне
(вместе больше не попадалось).

Одна, как ты, со лба отдувает прядь,
другая вечно ключи теряет,
а что я ни разу не мог в одно всё это собрать —
так Бог ошибок не повторяет.

И даже твоя душа, до которой ты
допустила меня раза три через все препоны, —
осталась тут, воплотившись во все живые цветы
и все неисправные телефоны.

А ты боялась, что я тут буду скучать,
подачки сам себе предлагая.
А ливни, а цены, а эти шахиды, а роспечать?
Бог с тобой, ты со мной, моя дорогая.

Translation:

Well in truth you're the only one that I've loved
My ideal that stands no comparison
In all of my women, I'm looking for you now
And that's what's helped me make peace with them

And while you indulge in your passion for arts
Taking trips from Orsay to Museo del Prado
One might say I've assembled you from small parts
I know how it sounds. That's the truth. I won't lie, you know.

Her nose turns up at the end
While Her back has got the same birthmark
One of them thinks the world of herself, another — of me
But no match made in heaven, no love spark

One will blow a strand of hair from her face,
One puts her keys God knows where
That I failed to encounter all that in one place
Is due to God being cautious in avoiding same errors.

And even your soul that I've only reached thrice, through all of that stymieing
It stayed Right here with me, in flowers that'll bloom in a trice
And old broken phones that aren't dialing

To think you were worried that I'd be all alone
Feeling bad for myself — for good reason
But those rains, prices, bombs or the press from back home,
Why, you've never left me, my love, and you fill every season.

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