You're not drunkards, you're not vagrants,
round the table of seven seas,
sing the praises, sing the praises
to my woman, if you please!
Look at her as if she were
your salvation in sea storms,
you compare her, you compare her
with a shore that's very close.
We are earthly, don't you tell us
Tales of gods, they're are not for us!
We just carry on wings of ours
what you carry in your arms.
You just ought to put your trust in
the blue lighthouse on the rock,
then the shore, all over sudden,
will emerge out of the fog.
(О синих моряках)
Не бродяги, не пропойцы
за столом семи морей
вы пропойте, вы пропойте
славу женщине моей!
Вы в глаза ее взгляните,
как в спасение свое,
вы сравните, вы сравните
с близким берегом ее.
Мы земных земней. И вовсе
к черту сказки о богах!
Просто мы на крыльях носим
то, что носят на руках.
Просто нужно очень верить
этим синим маякам,
и тогда нежданный берег
из тумана выйдет к вам.
Не бродяги, не пропойцы
за столом семи морей
вы пропойте, вы пропойте
славу женщине моей!
«The restaurant was rouge from the electricity. / Chairs were soaked with the flesh of the feminine heap. / When the insulted conductor rushed in and explicitly / commanded musicians to weep. And, right away, the trumpet — swinging — / smacked the sated muzzle with a handful of copper te...»
«The moon is emerging. / It going to be here / soon. / Now, it hangs in the air, full and stark. / That is probably God, / with a divine / silver spoon, / groping in the fish-soup of stars. »
«Six. / As heavy as a blow. / "Render unto God… render unto Caesar…" / But where is someone / like me / to go? / What refuge or shelter is there? / If only I were / shallow, / like the Pacific Ocean, — / I’d rise on the tiptoes of waves / to caress the moon with the tide...»
«The hooves stomped faster, / singing as they trod: / — Grip. / Grab. / Rob. / Grub. — Wind-fostered, / ice-shod, / the street skidded. / Onto its side, a horse / toppled, / and immediately, / the loafers gathered, / as crowds of trousers assembled up close / on the Kuz...»