Into my dream or lights hit. Through the dream I rattle: "Wait a bit, just wait a bit. Morn will mend the matter." But in morn allís wrong and mock: Merriment has waned; Empty guts, lungs full of smoke; Drink, that cures the brain. Hey once; and once more once; And once again; and once more thousand of once; And once more once; Once more of the thousandth once. In the pubs are green brocades, Napkins, white and swell, Eden for beggars and blockheads, Prison for myself. In church are scent and twilight. Deacons smoke frankincense. All there isnít so, as it might. All for me makes no sense. I climb on a hill in haste, Lest something would take place. An alder stands there on a crest. A cherry-tree stands downstairs. I wish, ivy wrapped the slope. Even this would cheer. I wish, anything would hap. All is not right here. Hey once; and once more once; And once again; and once more thousand of once; And once more once All isnít so, it should be. By a field I go along the brook. Light blinds. I donít see God. Out of a field cornflowers look. Yonder is a long road. By the road a thick wood grows, Full of witches and ogresses. In the end of that long road Is the block with axes. Somewhere steeds dance, beating time, Smoothly, with reluctance. By the road allís wrong till crime, In the end still less sense. Either the pub or the church - Everything isnít godly. Nay. Old chums, allís wrong so much. Chaps, all is so wrongly. One time, and one more time; And also many, many, many times; And one more time; Also many, many times.
© Eugeny Koshelev. Translation, 2008