There’s no yet ice-pieces, frosts, A land is warm, snowball-tree’s red But else one has became a ghost: At novodevichiye it’s his bed! It seems, he didn’t know signs, Unworking people say for nothing, Death catches first time those nice men Who died untruthly many times. If so, Makarych, don’t haste, Put down pegs, make softer clinches, O please reshoot, rewrite, replay And on the earth remain alive just! But makin’ at men’s eyes the tears He’s carried bullet in stomach, As loyal dog a land he’s catch, Snowball-tree’s bush rised at the etch So red as morning sun appears. A death is pointin’ best persons And pullin’ them one after one. Such our brother has leaved us! He caught an unhappy chance, - Lives now on one hundred percents!       But this year "Razin" should been if... Where’s character? Onega? Naroch? All are the ovens-benchs, Makarych, - And such your guy is not alive!         And now after short time-out Fate has said angry of that man: "Take from cheek-boneful man a ban - For whole commemoration plan He’s always fuckin’ to a mouth. That man with very soul in body And very heavy weight on hunch Take warm from bed before a lunch For he will not been so muddy!" And after indispensable bathroom Pure and undrank before a god He now died as no mud And more decidely than at past screen.            
© Leo Slowman (Lev Dozhdyov). Translation, 1998