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Not eve n a whisper is to be heard in the g arden, Everything has calme d down until dawn. If you o nly knew how dear th ey are to me, The evenings nea r Moscow! T he river is moving and (so metimes) no t, All made of the m oons silver. A song sounds and is not to be heard In those quiet eve nings. Why do you, darling, look at m e from the side, Be nding your hea d so low? It i s not easy to tell All the th ings that are in my heart.

And dawn is getti ng more and more vi sible. So, ple ase, be so kind: You, also, do nt forget The se summer eveni ngs near Mosc ow. Eve n whispers aren't hea rd in the garden, Everything has die d down till morning. If you on ly knew how dear t o me Are these Mosc ow nights.

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T he river moves, unmo ving, All in sil ver moonlight. A song is heard, yet un heard, In th ese silent nights. Why do you, dear, loo k askance, With yo ur head lowered s o?

It is har d to express, and har d to hold back, Everything that my hear t holds. But the da wn's becoming ever brig hter.

So plea se, just be go od. Do n't you, too, forg et Th ese summer, Moscow ni ghts.

Ako je tako,evo i mog prevoda,pa da vidim sta svet misli. 🙂 Hours no are no longer my measure of time, nor is the Sun’s fervent pace; Day is when his eyes meet mine, night is when they newly egress. My joy is not measured by laughter,nor whether his yearning is fainter than my, joy is our mutual silence in sore, when with the same beat our hearts cry. I am not sorry that down the river of life a drop of my existence will also slide, may youth and all depart now, greatly admiring me he stopped beside.