I donít like an end by fatal reason, My being cannot tire of my way. Not to my liking any time and season When ill or drunken Iím not OK. I donít like of cynicism coldness, Enthusiasm trustless, so I find - When strangers read my letters like uncalled guests By spying over shoulders them behind. I never like when a job is in a slack done, Or when the conversation is cut short. Nor do I like a shooting at the back gun, Iím against a point-blank gun shot. I hate the gossip in the shape íf a tongue play, A worm of doubt, pricks that praises deal, Or when all time to rub one up the wrong way, Or when to stroke glass against steel. I donít like a confidence contented, - Itís better when my brakes refuse to work. Annoys me honour when it is pretended, Or when an honour is a backstage talk. The sight of wings broken in a sickness Can rouse neither pity nor remorse, Not to my liking - violence, and weakness, And only Christ is painful on his cross. I never like myself when I ím frightened, When innocent is beaten in the face. Intruding on my soul nor do I like and, Especially with spittles of disgrace. I always hate maneges and arenas: A million being changed for a cent. To whatsoever future is to bring us Itís not to be my liking to the end.
© Natalia Tverskova. Translation, 2000