Yellow fires in my dream - all night long I mutter: ďHold on, brother, bide your time - morningís always better.Ē Morning comes, but nothingís right, ainít no life of clover: smoking on an empty gut or boozing, still hungover.         Thereís green damask in the taverns, napkins gleaming white: itís paradise for fools and beggars - but Iím a bird caged tight... Priests smoke incense in the church, barely any light - no, it isnít right, this stench, it just isnít right! I race up the hill, donít stop - otherwise, god knows... But an alder grows on top and cherry trees below. Give me ivy on the rise, that would be a sight... Give me something, something else - but nothingís going right!         By the river lies a field - light or dark - no god! I see bluets at my feet, and a long, long road. That road leads into a brake full of wicked hags. At the end - a chopping block and a sharpened axe... Somewhere all the horses trot in rhythm, like a chorus. But on this road, nothing is right, and at the end - itís worse. Not the churches, not the taverns - nothingís sacred, fellas! I tell ya, nothingís right, my brothers... Itís all wrong, I tell ya!        
© Boris Dralyuk. Translation, 2021