I donít like a fatal ending for a reason. Because Iím never getting sick of life. And I do not like any season When joyful songs of mine are not alive. I donít like bold cynicism for fetters, I donít trust some easy passion, Or when a stranger peeps into my letters; I find itís quite an ugly fashion. I donít like when there are halfway talks Or interruptions in the certain places. I donít like when someone shoots at folks; It doesnít matter, at the backs or faces. I hate the rumors in the form of versions, The rotten doubts and the honorís pin. The wrong way manners make me feel aversions, Like screech of iron cutting glass therein. I donít like at all cocksure game; Iím better off with no breaks on track! Such word as "honor" is forgotten, what a shame! They honor slander now, all behind oneís back. The broken wings mean just another loss; Thereís no pity in my heart, itís clear. I do like neither weakness no brute force, And yet, for Christ, the crucified, I have a tear. I donít like myself absorbed by fear; It hurts when innocent are beaten madly. I donít like when someone tries to smear My soul; all the more, my spirit so badly. I donít like arenas and manages; A million is swindled there at once. Whatever changes lie ahead by any measure, Iíll never ever like it, not a chance.
© Elena Sheverdinova. Translation, 2012