Open doors Of hospitals, police stations. The string is stretched out to the limit. French demons Are such morons But they still can carouse... I had surely left my mark somewhere The outcomes are predictable. Today a demon walked me Through the city of Paris. "Do drink a glass", - he whined "Come on, listen to the guitar!" He dragged us to the Russian bars With Hungarians and Bulgarians. I longed for nature, escaping to the forest Plunging into grass and water But this was a French demon He didnít like landscapes. We behaved as if we fled from prison, - Take us anywhere - We fell drunk and grew sober Always by turns. My friend-genius of all times, A folly and a rogue, Saddled the lame demon. When he regained his senses. Growing sober, he stood in a shower, Doing away with the fatigue, - And the demon didnít succeed - He couldnít break our Russian souls. But what my friend had managed to do - Came from God, not from the demon - He was of coarse grinding And rough mold. You couldnít pierce him through With nothing sharp or heavy And thatís when he is fenced in completely With hostile paling. Our drunk minds considered drinking Our true calling. Oh, the things we said To the guilty and the innocent! The string tore and dashed for it - Save our backs! The hospitals shed tears for us, And so did the prefectures... We hurled ourselves into demonís bondage, With grenades - under tanks - The tears glistened on the floor And franks grew dim in them. The Gypsies sung about a shawl And rocked the fiddles - Poured melancholy and sorrow into us - We are up to our necks in sadness. The moisture streamed down our ears - All rubbish, feebler than rubbish, - But again and again the fiddles Shoved the sleaze back into our souls. Somewhere we fed caviar To Armenians in bracelets and earrings, And that friend of mine in black boots - Fired a pistol. The veins hung down and clots Unfolded in blood, - And the demon, sitting vis-a-vis Giggled in French. Vanity - thatís what all in this life is Damn the prefectures! My friend signed checks And gave away banknotes. Wide open doors Of hospitals, police stations. The string is stretched out to the limit. French demons Are such morons. But they still can carouse...
© Nellie Tkach. Translation, ?