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, it’s not right,
There’s 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.
It’s a paradise for the poor and for fools,
For me, I’m like a bird in a cage!

In the church, there’s a stench and half-light,
The church clerks are smoking incense.
No! And in the church, it’s not right,
Everything is not as it should be.

I’m hurrying onto the hill
So it will come to no good
And on the hill there’s 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, there’s no god!
And in the clear field, there’s cornflowers,
À distant road.

By the road is a thick forest
With witches Baba-Yaga,
And at the end of that road,
Is à roadblock with axes.

Somewhere, horses dance in sync with the music,
Grudgingly and smoothly.
By the road, it’s not right,
but at the end of it, it’s even worse.

And not the church, nor the tavern -
None of it is holy!
No, boys, it’s not right,
It’s not right, boys!