The cars are running, here is another rushed by us -
All of them towards precise and ultimate aim,
Perhaps, from the song of Ancharov - "MAZ"1,
Loaded with Caspian herring.
I wander the roads, like a beggar sack in the hand,
Wisely all my kopeks saving
And also wisely use up my strength,
And in a quilt jacket muffle my scream.
Where to am I and why? - one can live, if he knows it.
And you can, without any straining
To wake up and get up, if only I could sleep,
And if not for a blizzard, then to sing.