I will die, we eventually die this is usual I would like it to be not myself by a knife to my back They have mercy on martyrs pray for them say they go to heaven Not so nice with the living but sure, we care for the dead. I will fall into mud taking care for looking pathetic And my soul will start stolen horses to gallop ahead In the paradise gardens I will steal some of whitish-pink apples Bother, gardens are guarded snipers shoot into foreheads ok. On arrival, I see paradise isnít paradise-looking Fruitless open space mere nothing at all limitless In the middle of nowhere a huge iron gate was erected And some weary people sitting near the gate watched the gate. My main horse gave a neigh I said nice words to him to calm down And removed burdock prickles which was hard work and plaited his mane A grey-haired old man wasted time on the bolt, doing something And he groaned and grumbled and he failed to unlock and he went. And the weary people didnít utter a groan Only squatted at once because kneeling was too hard for them This is raspberry, bros we are welcome sweet sound of chiming Everythingís coming back and we saw Him who was crucified.         I recalled the old man by the tears on his flabby cheeks He is Peter, a saint fn Apostle and I am a fool Gardens over there! and ŗ lot of frozen apples But the gardens are guarded I was shot through my foreheads ok. We are eager for goods after all, did I order too much goods? My demand is my friends and my wife on my coffin to fall And returning the favor I would take many whitish-pink apples Bother, gardens are guarded snipers shoot into foreheads ok.        
       
And I started the horses away from these cold and dangerous places Horses wish to eat oats but I hurry too much to have rest With a whip, on a brink of a precipice, carrying the apples I would save them for you, for you waited for mŚ to come back.
© Alex Sokolov. Translation, 2011