I donít prefer fatality of finish, I never tired for all my being long. And I will also battle to diminish The time of year without the jolly songs. I donít prefer the cynicism, but prudence, I donít believe in rapture, and whatís more: When someone read my letters with impudence, Looked over shoulder, asking nothing for. I donít prefer the dialogue with liar And interrupted dialogue is strange. I donít prefer the sight unseen fire And fire at the point of blank range. I donít prefer the gossip kinda version, The worms of doubt, the needle of the fame. I feel the smooth against the wool as tension, And iron scratching glass I hate the same. I donít prefer when confidence is rotten, Letís better brakes will fail on the speed. Thatís tragedy, that honour is forgotten, Now backbite treated as the giant feat. I donít feel sorry, when I see the people, Who have the broken and the wounded wings, Detest the violence and the hopeless cripple I just feel sorry for the Jesusís stings. I donít prefer myself in dreading role, Or when the blameless are under the beat, I donít prefer when someone breaks my soul, Especially when someone tries to spit. I donít prefer the manages and stages, Where million dollars changes cent by cent. And one predicted future giant changes, But I will never like it till the end.
© Dmitri Potikha. Translation, 2022