I don’t 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 don’t prefer the cynicism, but prudence, I don’t believe in rapture, and what’s more: When someone read my letters with impudence, Looked over shoulder, asking nothing for. I don’t prefer the dialogue with liar And interrupted dialogue is strange. I don’t prefer the sight unseen fire And fire at the point of blank range. I don’t 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 don’t prefer when confidence is rotten, Let’s better brakes will fail on the speed. That’s tragedy, that honour is forgotten, Now backbite treated as the giant feat. I don’t 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 Jesus’s stings. I don’t prefer myself in dreading role, Or when the blameless are under the beat, I don’t prefer when someone breaks my soul, Especially when someone tries to spit. I don’t 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