I’m in light, available to all,
I’m again involved in usual procedure:
To a microphone I’ve stood as to the icon,
No, not the icon, but the ambrasure.

And I’m not worthy to the microphone,
And my voice seems to many people boring.
I’m sure, if in some place I sing false,
Then this lie will be amplified to high tone.

The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs,
The lanterns shine to my face without kindness,
And from aside the projectors do gleam,
And it is heat, heat...

He is the beast with perfect tuning skill,
As sharp blade he is faultless in his doing,
He does not care of the state of me,
Let it be so, but I’m frankly singing notes.

Today I’m especially hoarse,
But I can’t risk to change the major tone,
Because of when I turn my soul to a curve,
He’ll never change it to a straight line backwards.

The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs,
The lanterns shine to my face without kindness,
And from aside the projectors do gleam,
And it is heat, heat...

On my lithe neck this microphone is twisting
With his snake’s tiny head around,
If I stop singing, he will bite me,
So I should sing to stupor or to death status...

Don’t stir, don’t move, don’t even dare!
I’ve seen his sting, he is the snake - I know,
And I’m today - the snake charmer,
I’m not singing, but I’m conjuring.

The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs,
The lanterns shine to my face without kindness,
And from aside the projectors do gleam,
And it is heat, heat...

He is voracious, like a nestling greedy,
From mouth he is snatching out sounds,
The nine gram of the lead he’ll stick to forehead,
I can’t wave hands, my guitar’s binding,

Again it’ll be without ending.
And what’s then microphone? Who could say?
It’s like the icon lamp near my face,
But I’m not holy, and the microphone don’t glare...

The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs,
The lanterns shine to my face without kindness,
And from aside the projectors do gleam,
And it is heat, heat...

My melodies are simplier than the scales,
But if I shift from a sincere tone,
Immediately there is the painful lashes
On cheeks by the motionless shadow of microphone.

I’m enlightened and worthy to all eyes.
What should I wait: the lull or the storm fury?
I’ve stood to microphone as to holy icons.
No-no, that’s the ambrasure.

The beams of lamps are beating me to ribs,
The lanterns shine to my face without kindness,
And from aside the projectors do gleam,
And it is heat, heat...