I don’t like the fatal passing either,
And life is not the thing I’m tired with.
I don’t like the every time of year,
When I could’t joyously my songs to sing.

I don’t like the cold rotten cynicism,
And don’t believe in ecstasy, and more:
I don’t like when somebody is reading
My letters, looking over my shoulder now.

I don’t like when work is done in half-way,
And don’t like when talk is interrupted.
I don’t like the shooting in the back then,
But in the need I’ll fire straight at somebody.

I don’t like the gossip as a version,
The worms of doubt, honour thorn as pass,
Or when they flatter contrary to coat,
Or when they draw with iron on the glass.

I don’t like the confidence repleted,
It’s better when the brakes then break down.
How annoying, that "honour" word depleted,
While slander is distributed around.

When I do see the fractured wings, no pity
I have in me, and here the reason is:
I don’t like the violence or weakness,
But I regret for crusified Christ.

I don’t like myself, if I’m frightened,
And don’t stand when innocent are beaten.
I don’t like when someone thrusts in soul mine,
And ever more, when someone’s spitting in.

I don’t like the circus rings and stages,
Where millions exchanged to only rouble.
Let it would be in future many changes,
I never ever like this, to be true.