The candles being lighted every evening Your images the smokes fumigate; And I donít want to learn - time can be healing, That everything is being gone with it. Iíll not get rid of quietness in life process, Since what I stored in soul for a year ahead, Sheís taken to the port, still not on purpose, Proceeding to the airplane after that. The candles being lighted every evening Your images the smokes fumigate; And I donít want to learn - time can be healing, That everything is being gone with it. The soul of mine is a deserted desert. - Donít harass! - no need to pester it: In it song snatches only can be gathered, - The rest of it is taken ď a ParisĒ. The candles being lighted by the evening Your images the smokes fumigate, And I donít want to learn - time can be healing, That all the meaningís to be gone with it. Thereíre no roads to my soulís destinations - Let you ransack my soul - youíd find at once Just dialogues with poor variations, And all the rest in it is Paris, France... Let be the candles lighted up by evenings, And let the smokes your image fumigate, But I donít want to know that time heals feelings, That all elapses right with it.  
© Vyacheslav Chistyakov. Translation, 2013