With no trace and no control, As the asphalt burns their tyres, From the nightmare urban sprawl, Cars leave town like theyíre on fire. Both unwieldy ones, like tanks, The Fords, Selenes and then the Lincolns, And the finer ones, the Mustangs, The Mercedes and the Citroens. Itís like they know the gameís not in vain; Itíll be like wreaking bloody revenge on the towns; Faster - just donít set the spark plugs aflame, Carburettors, or whatever they have around. Now the way is hard to spot; Thereís a swarm of limousines there, And among them like two dots Two lovely cars can just be seen there, Linked as if they had a tow rope - It can snap where itís worn thinnest; Their gas pedals and their chokes wonít Have a race left they can finish. Itís like they know the gameís not in vain; They can pay off everything with one leap or one bound; Or has he words for her heíll declaim On his klaxon, or whatever they have around? All the cars that fill this scene Nurse a secret grudge against you; Keep her, light-grey limousine, In your sights whatever you do! There in front! Watch out! A fork! Cut it finer! Show some gumption! You wonít make it... There, you baulked! Yes, you wavered, you light-grey one! Both the cars knew the gameís not in vain; But why hoot at advertising hoardings right now? Or does he feel a burdenís slipped away From his bonnet, or whatever they have around? No, the fork brought tragedy - Arrows split, youíre gone forever. Does it always have to be Exits canít bring us together? This carís getting very near - Can the light-grey limo race on? Crashing into seventh gear He forgot to put the brake on. Is uniting just an empty dream? Or maybe this is their bloody revenge on the towns? Their suspensions lie with spun-away wheels And their hearts too, or whatever they have around.
© Margaret & Stas Porokhnya. Translation, 2007