Perhaps it appears strange to somebody, That we donít observe beauties in passing, - But between stations we lose minutes, And at the stop - we lose hours. We send cars in gallop, We fly, donít hope of God!.. For some under the wheels - into the coffin, For others - simply the way to other destinations. But how crazy are people, Hands on the steering wheels and eternally in dust!.. But at the stop we lose copecks, And between the stations we lose roubles. We send cars in gallop, We fly, donít hope of God! For some under the wheels - into the coffin, For others - simply the way to other destinations.
© Elisabeth Jelinek. Translation, 2018