Iím in light, available to all, Iím again involved in usual procedure: To a microphone Iíve stood as to the icon, No, not the icon, but the ambrasure. And Iím not worthy to the microphone, And my voice seems to many people boring. Iím sure, if in some place I sing false, Then this lie will be amplified to high tone. The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs, The lanterns shine to my face without kindness, And from aside the projectors do gleam, And it is heat, heat... He is the beast with perfect tuning skill, As sharp blade he is faultless in his doing, He does not care of the state of me, Let it be so, but Iím frankly singing notes. Today Iím especially hoarse, But I canít risk to change the major tone, Because of when I turn my soul to a curve, Heíll never change it to a straight line backwards. The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs, The lanterns shine to my face without kindness, And from aside the projectors do gleam, And it is heat, heat... On my lithe neck this microphone is twisting With his snakeís tiny head around, If I stop singing, he will bite me, So I should sing to stupor or to death status... Donít stir, donít move, donít even dare! Iíve seen his sting, he is the snake - I know, And Iím today - the snake charmer, Iím not singing, but Iím conjuring. The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs, The lanterns shine to my face without kindness, And from aside the projectors do gleam, And it is heat, heat... He is voracious, like a nestling greedy, From mouth he is snatching out sounds, The nine gram of the lead heíll stick to forehead, I canít wave hands, my guitarís binding, Again itíll be without ending. And whatís then microphone? Who could say? Itís like the icon lamp near my face, But Iím not holy, and the microphone donít glare... The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs, The lanterns shine to my face without kindness, And from aside the projectors do gleam, And it is heat, heat... My melodies are simplier than the scales, But if I shift from a sincere tone, Immediately there is the painful lashes On cheeks by the motionless shadow of microphone. Iím enlightened and worthy to all eyes. What should I wait: the lull or the storm fury? Iíve stood to microphone as to holy icons. No-no, thatís the ambrasure. The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs, The lanterns shine to my face without kindness, And from aside the projectors do gleam, And it is heat, heat...
© Lyudmila Purgina. Translation, 2011