In my dreams are yellow flames,
And in a hoarse voice, dreaming, I say:
- Wait a little, wait a little, -
It will be clearer in the morning!
But even in the morning, itís not right,
Thereís none of that happiness:
Or are you smoking on an empty stomach,
Or are you drinking with a hangover.
In the taverns are green shtof-bottles,
and white napkins.
Itís a paradise for the poor and for fools,
For me, Iím like a bird in a cage!
In the church, thereís a stench and half-light,
The church clerks are smoking incense.
No! And in the church, itís not right,
Everything is not as it should be.
Iím hurrying onto the hill
So it will come to no good
And on the hill thereís an alder tree,
And at the foot of the hill is a cherry.
At the least, to entwine the slope with ivy,
For me, it would be a pleasure
At least something else...
Everything is not as it should be!
And so I go through the fields, by the river.
Light - darkness, thereís no god!
And in the clear field, thereís cornflowers,
ņ distant road.
By the road is a thick forest
With witches Baba-Yaga,
And at the end of that road,
Is ŗ roadblock with axes.
Somewhere, horses dance in sync with the music,
Grudgingly and smoothly.
By the road, itís not right,
but at the end of it, itís even worse.
And not the church, nor the tavern -
None of it is holy!
No, boys, itís not right,
Itís not right, boys!