I don’t like the fatal passing either, And life is not the thing I’m tired with. I don’t like the every time of year, When I could’t joyously my songs to sing. I don’t like the cold rotten cynicism, And don’t believe in ecstasy, and more: I don’t like when somebody is reading My letters, looking over my shoulder now. I don’t like when work is done in half-way, And don’t like when talk is interrupted. I don’t like the shooting in the back then, But in the need I’ll fire straight at somebody. I don’t 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 don’t like the confidence repleted, It’s 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 don’t like the violence or weakness, But I regret for crusified Christ. I don’t like myself, if I’m frightened, And don’t stand when innocent are beaten. I don’t like when someone thrusts in soul mine, And ever more, when someone’s spitting in. I don’t 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