Day will come - I shall die, for we all reach our last destination.
I’d rather be stabbed than expire on my own accord in my bed.
People pity the killed, pay them tribute and promise salvation...
I won’t speak of the living, but we tenderly care for the dead.

I shall fall on my face, roll in blood from one side to the other
And on the stolen old jades my soul’ll gallop up, up and ahead...
In the magical Gardens of Eden rosy-cheecked golden apples I’ll gather.
It’s too bad that the gardens are guarded, - and they shoot point-blank in the head.

When we got to the place what I saw there was quite unpleasant:
barren wide open nothing, no lush gardens, no flowers, no trees,
only cast-iron gate towered over the grim boundless desert,
and a transport of convicts, scores of them at the gate, - on their knees.

My poor wheel-horse got spooked, but I calmed him by calling him "darling",
I removed burs from him, cleaned his fetlocks and plaited his mane.
The grey-haired gateman fumbled long with the bolt, with low grumbling
but the lock would not budge, so the old man just stumbled away.

And the grey worn-out crowd did not utter a groan or a murmur
Only shifted the weight from the knees grown numb in the frost
"Hear the tolling of bells? what a life, brother" - signed a newcomer.
It had all came full circle, and again someone moaned on the cross.

But the old man came back, yelling, bossing the guardsmen around
He brought over some help, not with keys - with reliable tested device:
Heavy iron bat hit the bolt, heavy gates gave with screeching some ground,
And the crowd dashed forth, into Gardens of God’s Paradise.

I could tell the old man by his cheecks burnt to bones with hot tears:
it was Peter, the holy apostle, while I was a stupid blockhead.
There it was, promised land, laden heavy with pink frozen apples.
It’s too bad that the gardens are guarded - and they shoot point-balnk in the head.

We all crave many blessings, but was it so much that I wanted?
All I need is my friends, and my wife wail in sorrow for me when I’m dead.
I in turn will for them steal those apples - sweet, pink, golden-spotted...
It’s too bad that the gardens are guarded, they shoot point-blank in the head.

In my stiffling hands, candles melted like in candelabras.
I meanwhile rushed horses away from this land of the dead.
I’ve done it! I stole those cherished famed paradise apples -
And for that I was shot point blank on the spot, in the head

 
 
 
 

Whip in hand, I’m urging the horses away from this hellhole of haven
Though the horses are tired, I can’t stop, I’m running amuck,
From the brink of the precipice, dead, I’m bringing you armfull of apples -
For I know you’re waiting again, from the haven for me to come back.