I donít like the fatal passing either, And life is not the thing Iím tired with. I donít like the every time of year, When I couldít joyously my songs to sing. I donít like the cold rotten cynicism, And donít believe in ecstasy, and more: I donít like when somebody is reading My letters, looking over my shoulder now. I donít like when work is done in half-way, And donít like when talk is interrupted. I donít like the shooting in the back then, But in the need Iíll fire straight at somebody. I donít like the gossip as a version, The worms of doubt, honour thorn as pass, Or when they flatter contrary to coat, Or when they draw with iron on the glass. I donít like the confidence repleted, Itís better when the brakes then break down. How annoying, that "honour" word depleted, While slander is distributed around. When I do see the fractured wings, no pity I have in me, and here the reason is: I donít like the violence or weakness, But I regret for crusified Christ. I donít like myself, if Iím frightened, And donít stand when innocent are beaten. I donít like when someone thrusts in soul mine, And ever more, when someoneís spitting in. I donít like the circus rings and stages, Where millions exchanged to only rouble. Let it would be in future many changes, I never ever like this, to be true.
© Lyudmila Purgina. Translation, 2010