Some day Iíve got to die - we all get inevitably dying. íWish I chanced upon knife not by nature to go away. They give murdered men mercy, last sermons for Paradise crying, - The deceased treated well, for the live so I donít say. On the mud stroke the face - nicely chosen a pose to fall, pardon. And my spirit will bolt on the stolen jades galloping, mad. Iíd pick some rose apples for me in the Paradise garden, But the gardens have guards never missing when shooting a head. We arrived and I see far from Paradise something around: Barren waste round me, total infinite nothing in sight. In the middle of nothing the gates cast of iron astound And a crowd of lags, in five thousand, kneeling beside. There neighed a shaft one. Tender words calming down the horse shock, Brushed and braided the mane badly tangled on burdock I, deft. The gray haired old chief busied too long himself with the door's lock - Groaned, grumbled at it, didnít manage to open and left. And the people tormented let out no moan, no sound. Saving their stiff legs from the knees to a squat they just swung. Thatís a haunt for us, lads, - us, the haunters, the bells ringing found! All has circled again and in heaven the Crucified hung. We all need happiness. Did I ask for as much as in Eden?! Only having some friends and a wife sobbing over me dead. It's for them that I try to pick pale rose apples forbidden, But the gardens have guards never missing when shooting a head. By the tears on old cheeks I remembered the man of gray hair: Heís Peter the Saint, an apostle, when Iím an idiot. Look! The gardens indeed, masses of frozen apples in there! But the gardens have guards, and without a miss Iíve been shot.                
Driving horses away to escape the place fatal and cheerless, Starving my tired jades, but I stubbornly stopped being nice. A full bosom of apples by precipice flying and fearless Iím bringing to you waiting for me back from Paradise.
© Natalia Tverskova. Translation, 2011