You can be driving, or even cab-riding, Or maybe sauntering home from a bar. In all of this automotive surrounding You canít tell what hits you or how hard. Hereís a story the papers have mentioned: Three men rode in a hearse yesterday. Then - boom, an accident! All three were injured. The one in the coffin, of course, was OK. Then at the sendoff the brass grated ears And for the cantor the notes were too high. The tears were phony, the words - insincere, Only the man in the box didnít lie. His former boss, infamously dishonest, Kissed him on the forehead, leading the pack. But the deceased man, ever so modest, Didnít once kiss anyone back. Guess what? With speeches the rain donít bother: It started to shower. Natureís the boss! Everyone ran and quickly took cover, Only the dead man remained where he was. He could care less! That I truly admire. Now, the living arenít nearly as tough. Only the dead men, the men that expired, They are courageous. They are ďmen enoughĒ! People can beat you and treat you wrongly. They label you, put a stamp on your head. Truly youíre safe in one place only: Inside the coffin, presumably dead. You can have a single or you can share. Living conditions here donít mean squat! The dead donít demand any special care. Jolly good fellas! I like them a lot. Strict is the world of shadows and angels. No worries, no fears beyond the grave. Here we are, always living in danger, Only the ones in the coffin are safe.
Some may accuse me of worshipping corpses. No! Itís just with fate Iím upset! Some day we all will get run over, Except for the ones who are already dead.
© Vadim Astrakhan. Translation, 2011
© Vadim Astrakhan. Performance, 2011