Into my dream creep yellow lights,
And I shout myself hoarse in my sleep:
"Wait a bit, wait a bit -
Itíll get better in the morning."
But in the morning nothing is right,
Itís no fun anymore:
You either smoke on empty stomach,
Or drink from a hangover.
In the drinking-house there is a familiar sight
Of a green shot, white napkins, -
Itís a heaven for beggars and buffoons,
I feel like a caged bird in it.
The church dissolves in stench and darkness,
The deacons are smoking the incense...
No, nothing is right in here, either,
Nothing is the way itís supposed to be!
I hurry off onto the hill,
So nothing would come before me, -
There grows an alder on the hill
And under the hill - a cherry tree.
If only the ivy twined the slope, -
It would bring me a slight consolation,
If there only was something else...
But no, nothing is the way it should be!
I go off onto the field, along the river.
Tons of light, no God.
Corn-flowers in the clear field
And a road leading far away.
Along the road - a deep forest
With evil witches.
And at the end of that road -
A guillotine and axes.
Somewhere horses are dancing to the beat,
Half-heartedly and smoothly..
Nothing is right along the road,
And itís no better at the end of it.
And not the church or the drinking-house -
Nothing is holy!
No, folks, nothing is right!
Nothing is right, folks...