lie still and be afraid
that's what the wind is saying
a spirit born of freud
has revered been by many
he'll point at all the things
show that inside they're empty
so kong in truth is king
and now christened quentin

seven swans eight seagulls one flamingo
those birds are so silent it hurts
mute they are
as plácido domingo after gig on red square
heinrich hertz in popov's telegram
so pointless as a rookery of laughing owls
final rain deferentially anoints us
with a burning sunflower oil

at the end of the day with the sunset
doors are closing squeaky like fish
time goes down and space goes upwards
and you'll stop being freebie you wish

strike drone spotting
as a capital offense
close your eyes
enjoy the sound of thunder
those who already tried
just do not wonder
why buanarotti stopped to fence

The deadline is not set yet, the calendar's silent still,
But the sky whispers - alas, and each sunset's bitter with
Foreboding, for whom will weep the church bell-ringer at dawn -
So frightening to guess in the night.

I would sleep - but there's no sleep, silence is ringing, ringing,
As if a mosquito or as if a drawn bowstring,
And the dim lanternship, the midnight blue aconite,
Blooms in the dust of snow.

To sob until morning, to sob at the damned lanterns,
And to wait and not wait anymore, and to tread the black trace
To the warehouses of memory into frenzy, till dawn
So they go insane.

Перевод на английский текста Ольги Макеевой

Еще не назначен срок, еще молчит календарь,
Но небо шепчет – увы, и каждый закат горчит
Предчувствием, и по ком всплакнет на заре звонарь –
Так страшно гадать в ночи.

Уснуть бы – но сна как нет, звенит тишина, звенит,
Не то комаром, не то натянутой тетивой,
И тусклое фонарье, полуночный аконит,
Цветет в пыли снеговой.

Рыдать до утра, рыдать на чертовые фонари,
И ждать и не ждать уже, и в памяти закрома
Протаптывать черный след до одури, до зари
Так сходят с ума.

it doesn't tea it doesn't coffee
even it doesn't rain
on chilly winter night
and it's so plain and real
that marx was right
and even left sometimes
with russia kievan

young angels don't believe
in hell and heaven anymore
they know the truth
that apples are coming far from pines
oh well god is a bit of bore
so plain and smooth

just snow this part of the world
cover country with ice
you know it squirted enough now
with blood and delusions
avenging archangel has curled into fireball
nice and clean end of world
void's calling god's bluff
when unreal truth comes

a wishing bone will grant the final wish
a chicken will be borne by plymouth rock
by both halfs of it
and flying fish will crack the skull
and eve will start to smoke

never stopping in constantinople
made unstable time in istanbul
clock and space are just that
just a scopal libel-label
of mystical school
where pupils are told to be modest
and are finally hidden in hell
so short of the fall
latter august
that you were unable to tell