I donít like predestined results, That is why I do not sing of them I donít like any time of the year When I drink or when I am ailing. I donít like that open cynicism, Exaltations and such, Also, when someone reads my letters Looking over my back. I donít like this talk in whispers indirectly Or when conversations suddenly come to a halt, I donít like to be shot in the back, Nor do I look forward to be shot at point blank. I donít like it when I am frightened. I am annoyed when people are being hurt without cause I donít like it when they get into my soul, Moreover, when they spit all over it. I hate those gossips and their stories The worms of doubt, the sting of honor. Always against the grain They are cutting glass with iron and not a diamond. I do not like smug satisfaction, Better let it all get out of control... I am mad when the word "honour" is forgotten And that slander has replaced it behind my back. When I see broken wings, I feel no compassion and no wonder, I despise both violence and helplessness And that is why I do not pity the meekness of a crucified Christ. I donít like stadium and areas Where millions are spent for trifles Let there be great changes ahead! That I will never like.
© Misha Allen. Translation, 1973