I arrived by horse to this place one could hardly call Eden A barren wasteland, utter nothingness as far as one could see Only a towering gate, imposing and leaden An before it, five thousand prisoners on their kness With tender words I soothed my horse as he began to wail And pulled the burrs from his tangled hair, and adorned his mane with a plait. Gray St.Peter the Apostle fiddled with the lock to no avail And grumbled and grunted as he stomped off from the gate Not a single groan from the haggard throng They only rose from their kness and crouched low to the ground Itís a den of thieves here, boys, hear the mellow chimeís song The crucified one hangs above, and everythingís come around The gray-haired old man barked in anger and spite Then called someone over to the gate once again Someone took a rusty bolt and struck the rail with all his mignt And into this blessed place the horde did descend I recognized the old man by the tears on his face Itís St.Peter - heís an apostle, oh I am a fool I realize Frozen apples abound in this heavenly place But guards watch the gardens, and shot me dead between the eyes We all long to prosper, has this been my crime? All I wanted were friends, and a wife to fall on my coffin and wail. For them I would gather pale pink apples sublime But guards watch the gardens, and shoot between the eyes without fail                 And so I fled this godforsaken place The bit between my teeth, for oats my horses plea My shirt stuffed with apples, along the edge I race And will bring then to you - from Eden, too, you waited for me
© Carl Schreck + Merkhat Sharipzhanov. Translation, 2015