When it’s time, I will die - in the end, every being must perish.
Wish that not by myself, but instead, from a knife in my back:
For the killed, there are vigils, compassion, and heaven to cherish.
I can’t say for the living - the dead are the ones we protect.

I will fall on my face, then slide gracefully down on the gravel,
And my soul will skedaddle away on the stolen mare’s legs!
In the marvelous paradise gardens I’ll pick pale pink apples…
But the gardens are guarded, the shooters aim straight for the head.

We arrived. I see something that’s far from the image of heaven:
Just a limitless desert, an absolute wasteland awaits.
In the heart of this nothingness, are the cast gates, so I reckon,
And a line of great length at the gates, staring hard at the gates.

Horses roared! So I eased them a bit with some passionate phrases,
And I cleaned all the barbs from their forelocks and braided their manes.
The gray-headed old man had been trying his keyring for ages;
He just grunted and grumbled, then left, leaving locks on the chains.

The great line did not utter a groan, but abandoned their kneeling,
Such a much-needed rest for their knees that were aching and numb.
It is clover, my friends, - overwhelming celestial ringing!
All returned to its course, and above is the Crucified One.

The apostle, old man, led the guards in the commissar manner,
Called for help, made the second attempt to reopen the place.
Someone pounded a section of rail with a rusty old hammer -
In a flash, they were all on their way to the glorious grace!

I remembered the man by the tears on his cheeks, which looked dappled:
He’s Saint Peter the Elder, and I am a dimwit instead.
My first glimpse of the gardens with plenty of frostbitten apples…
But the gardens are guarded, the shooters aim straight for the head.

We are asking for favors, I’m asking myself, as it happens.
But I don’t need too much - just my friends and my wife when I’m dead.
And of course, I will steal for them precious seedless pink apples…
But the gardens are guarded, the shooters aim straight for the head.

The long candles would melt in numb hands like in brass candelabras,
In the meantime, I got my good horses to gallop ahead.
I shook down, I collected the very best seedless pink apples…
And for this I was shot by the shooters who aimed at my head.

Are they mad that I gathered some frostbitten fruit in their gardens?
It all came back around, the archangel’s gunshot was a hit.
But I’m glad of the shot! Here are apples, safe under my garments;
Warming them with my skin, I’ll come back down to earth in a bit.

So I drove my good horses away from these perilous places,
They were eager to flee, and I, too, got the bit ’tween my teeth.
On the brink of a chasm, whip in hand, carrying apples, I’m racing -
I will bring them to you, you’ve been waiting for me from this bliss!