500
This is my translation of «500» by Борис Гребенщиков [Boris Grebenshchikov].
Five hundred anthems—no song on page;
The firmament is turning to a padlocked cage.
In a typeface new, the same words as before.
A comical couplet for an elevator fall.
The streets of the province are swept by sukhovei winds;
My motherland like a sow now her own sons strips and skins;
With relentlessness of a supersonic drill,
Hands wearing gloves are now rocking the cradle.
The candles are lit up at each of their ends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.
Hey, does anyone know who's to the cross fastened?
The righteous ones are slapped-up like brothers on acid.
Every time that they tell me we are together,
I know that Gruz Dvesti brings in more money than ever.
Yellow Submarine's cockpit has mummies inside her.
The wheel of laughter is betraying the properties of a meat grinder.
Patriotism simply means, "slaughter the infidel one."
This jagged fracture of a crack, right through my heart now runs.
Muddy waters are hiding our ends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.
The dead ones are burying their own dead friends.
Feeling like a negative that's into light flung;
Dry rage in my heart, the taste of iron on my tongue;
All our fortune is in Hong Kong and in Poland assembled,
And there are no more names which us can resemble.
In each blossoming bud there is a clockwork countdown;
We are moving down the stairs that are leading downward;
A bird whose song flows, it can never be fettered;
Those falling in the elevator with each second feel lighter, better.
The hounds have drowned in howling and panting;
We were taught not to live; we were taught how to drop dead standing.
You know, this is a game for two to take part in.
This is a game for two to take part in.
This is a game for two to take part in.
This is a game for two to take part in.