Dreaming, yellow lights at me, And in a dream Iím groaning: "Wait a bit, sleep on it, Take counsel with the morning." But the morningís also nuts. All the fun is over. Either smokes on empty guts Or quenches a hang-over. Eh once, another one And yet many, many, many, Many ones, and another one, and yet many, many ones. Restaurants are all green damask, Dressed with white serviettes - Heaven for buffoons and slugs, And me, like in a clap-net. Church is stench and shade around, Clerks are burning incense. No, nor the church is sound, Makes too little sense. Iím in a hurry up a hill, Shrinking back from harms way. And uphill, thereís an alder-tree, And downhill, thereís a cherry. Twine an ivy round the slope, That would ease the doldrums. Be there something else on top... Makes no sense at all. Eh once, another one And yet many, many, many, Many ones, and another one, Makes no sense at all... Iím by a stream across a field - Light is bright, unholy. And in the open field, thereís weed And a long, long journey. Woods are thick along the road, Full of Baba-Yagas. And at the dead-end of that road - A wooden block with axes. Someplace horses, tapping time Forcedly and somberly. Along the road, all is insane, And at the dead-end, all the more. And either church or restaurants, Nothing is regarded. No bros, all is wrong! All is absurd, brothers! Eh once, another one And yet many, many, many, Many ones, and another one, All is absurd, Brothers!
© Vyacheslav Chetin. Translation, 2009