My dream: the yellow lights,
and I’m snoring in my sleep.
I’ll wait awhile, I’ll wait awhile,
for the morning is wiser.

But even in the morning nothing is right,
there is no joy at all,
Whether smoking on an empty stomach,
or drinking from hangover.

 
 
 
 

I see green curtains in the tavern,
also the white napkins -
Heaven for the poor and jesters,
but I feel like a bird in a cage.

Stench and semi gloom in the church,
deacons smoking incense.
No! Nothing is right in the church,
not like it has to be.

I am rising up the hill,
to avoid the trouble.
An alder tree on the hill,
under the hill - a cherry.

I wish the slope can grow with ivy -
to me it would be pleasure,
I can wish for anything right now -
not like it has to be.

 
 
 
 

I am walking the field along the river.
Light and dark. No God.
Cornflowers grow in the field,
and there’s the distant road.

Along the road a dense forest stands,
with wicked witches,
But in the end of that
road-chopped wood with axes.

Somewhere the horses dance,
unwanting and fluent,
Along the road nothing is right,
and especially in the end.

Nothing is sacred-neither
the church, nor tavern.
No, fellows, nothing seems to be right,
Nothing at ah, fellows!