AUDIO
Everything we exhale on a chilly day:
Little lumps of dreams, hazy trickle of bitterness,
and bubbles, the breath of the earth, melting into the wind,
smoke pluming out of the stacks, tepid river mist,
the steam above a basin where someone tries
to wash away the stains on their tainted hands,
gray smoke, and the mist from the river, oily and dark
our sighs and sobs, and the usual morning yawns
along with a rabble of timid and helpless words —
they all float up — up through the seven skies,
seven silver curtains, the drapes of the heaven’s guise, —
turn into stars and tumble down to the earth.
Look at these glittering ribbons, the slender threads,
the sparkle of diamonds, crosses, circles and spheres —
as if a workshop of angels were busy here!
That is, Heaven tells us, how poetry comes to exist,
and eternity pays a call, while the flakes of snow
are gliding, clear of the pitch-black, voracious earth
First it was a poem by Grigory Kruzhkov, a well-known Russian poet and translator. Then, an excellent singer-songwriter, Sergey Trukhanov, composed a song to this verse.
I translated the lyrics to English, and asked the AI to sing it to the same melody. Of course AI singing is far from perfect. But it does not stop amazing me that this kind of thing is now possible at all!
Everything we exhale on a chilly day:
Little lumps of dreams, hazy trickle of bitterness,
and bubbles, the breath of the earth, melting into the wind,
smoke pluming out of the stacks, tepid river mist,
the steam above a basin where someone tries
to wash away the stains on their tainted hands,
gray smoke, and the mist from the river, oily and dark
our sighs and sobs, and the usual morning yawns
along with a rabble of timid and helpless words —
they all float up — up through the seven skies,
seven silver curtains, the drapes of the heaven’s guise, —
turn into stars and tumble down to the earth.
Look at these glittering ribbons, the slender threads,
the sparkle of diamonds, crosses, circles and spheres —
as if a workshop of angels were busy here!
That is, Heaven tells us, how poetry comes to exist,
and eternity pays a call, while the flakes of snow
are gliding, clear of the pitch-black, voracious earth
First it was a poem by Grigory Kruzhkov, a well-known Russian poet and translator. Then, an excellent singer-songwriter, Sergey Trukhanov, composed a song to this verse.
I translated the lyrics to English, and asked the AI to sing it to the same melody. Of course AI singing is far from perfect. But it does not stop amazing me that this kind of thing is now possible at all!