Smelly fat is slowly melting in copper lamp.
- Oh tell me a story mother, please tell be a chap!
And such a story that in every word there's a solid terror!
“And will you be able to sleep if I’ll really tell you?”

OK, listen: once every ten springs in the neighboring space
An angry evil creeps up from some distant place.
He knows the words of animals and birds of prey,
He gives bitter grief to those he encounters on the way.
Whether you're riding, walking, flying - there's one outcome:
A crimson trail gleams on a fluffy cushion of scum.
Under a hill, in a swamp, in a pool, in a network of traps -
No matter how you hide, you can't hide anywhere, it's all same.
Do you hear, do you hear the onerous stamping of stallion?
The horseshoes are clanging and clanging over the cobblestones.
A caftan is burning with a bright flame between the trees,
And the ground behind him is just scorched emptiness.
It would be nice for all of us to survive in his spring...
But that's enough, honey. It's time to go to sleep.

She just got up: the little man-thing son grabbed her sleeve:
- What is the name of that evil, mom?
- St. George, my dear...

Перевод текста Ванечки

You would make a cool polonaise:
So smooth, graceful, leisurely.
The rustle of dresses and the soft crunch of lace cuffs,
Savagnin, Bordeaux and whipped cream desserts...
Moderately prudish, slightly flamboyant, un peu mièvre
(Excuse me but you are slightly nonmodern).
Every bow is a delight, every pas is a masterpiece,
Whoever danced falls in love closer to the coda.
There are countless other dances regularly near you:
In the evening you are with pavane, on Sunday a lunch with galliard,
Carried away last summer by a shy minuet.
Somewhere in the anamnesis were tango and sarabanda.
Balance, battements, pas de chat and Grand fouette,
A fiery whisper, a giggle, a thrill of girlish hands...
It is a pity that nothing will work out with you:
I’m not Nureyev, forgive me, I am not trained.

Перевод текста Ванечки