I hate the fatal end - itís so clear, Life never makes me tired, faint or blue, And I do hate each season of the year When I donít sing my merry songs to you. I hate the guy whoís cynical and cold; Iím rather cautious seeing too much glee; I hate to see the lad so rude and bold, Who reads my letters peeping over me. Iím full of bile when things are half-completed, To cut the talk abruptly - itís a shame! To shoot in someoneís back is mean and bitter, To shoot the man point blank is just the same! Conceit and vanity, I think, are both rotten - Iíd rather have a car with no brakes... Itís a disgrace that honor is forgotten But in the race of life the squealers win the stakes For gossip, tittle-tattle I donít care, I hate both wavering and grandeur-gaining fuss, I hate it when Iím stroked against the hair, I hate to see how iron crushes glass. The broken wings in me wake no compassion, Though I am not too callous or too hard; And though I hate depression and aggression, The martyrdom of Christ still breaks my heart. I hate myself when I get feet so cold That I can watch how innocents are hit... I hate it when they break into my soul, And hate it when into my soul they spit. I hate it when true art is turned to vending, When tawdry jestersí fortunes dissipate... And even if great changes are impending, Iíll never fall in love with what I hate!
© George Tokarev. Translation, ?
Edited by Robert Titterton