It’s my fate, to fight on to the end, to the cross.
It’s my lot, to keep wrangling and shout myself hoarse,
And to argue and fight, till I froth at the mouth,
That it’s all of it wrong - silly words, crooked path:
That the hucksters are lying about Christ’s mistakes,
That the wailing still echoes at countless wakes,
That we still bear the scars of the cursed Tartar yoke,
Of the three hundred years that all went up in smoke.
Yoke or not, Kalita1 strengthened Muscovy’s throne,
Those who fought one to ten felt no longer alone,
Then - more proof that goodwill and revolt are in vain:
Pugachov2, blood and misery, and blood again.
I’ll repeat it, though people won’t get it, at first.
I will say it in earnest, in malice and jest,
Though I sometimes believe that the point has been lost:
It’s all vanity, and of all vain things, the worst.

But I can’t drain the cup, not as long as I run.
Even if I spill half, I do not think I can.
And I can’t throw the cup in an enemy’s face -
I’m not lying or bragging, I simply confess.
On a slippery disk, swiftly turning, I reel.
I keep losing my balance, I writhe like an eel.
Shall I smash into pieces my cup? But I can’t!
For a worthier man I shall patiently hunt.
I’d hand over the cup, and I’d slide off the disk.
I’d be free from the worry, I would be released.
I would hide in the darkness, the sleet and the snow.
He might finish the cup - only I’d never know.
Now I graze in a meadow, with other old bums.
Not a hint at the cup left undrained - I keep mum.
Not a murmur - I guess I had best save my breath.
It I don’t, I’m afraid I’ll be trampled to death.

I am breaking my back, boys, I do what I can,
And some day one of you may for me light a candle -
For the naked nerves’ sting as I sing and I choke,
For the tough jolly manner in which I make jokes.
Even if I am threatened with all kinds of woe,
Even if I am promised rewards, I say no!
I will not sound too good if my nerves dangle loose -
I best take up the slack and then lighten the screws.
I would rather carouse, romp, raise all hell and fight,
I would rather tear up what I wrote in the night,
I would rather knock down and kick senseless my song
Than dance happily like butterflies in the sun.

If I do drain the cup - after all, it’s my fate -
If my songs aren’t too crude, and the tunes do not grate,
I shall froth at the mouth, but I shall not complain;
I shall go - but I’ll prove that not all is in vain!