| In my dream — yellow lights,
|
| Wheezing in my sleep;
|
| A while longer, a whole longer,
|
| In the morning I’ll be fine!
|
| But in the morning everything’s wrong,
|
| The joy is gone;
|
| Either you smoke on an empty stomach,
|
| Or you quench a hangover.
|
| Hey one, yes
|
| Once again;
|
| Hey one, yes
|
| Many-many more times…
|
| In the bars; |
| green tablecloths
|
| And white napkins.
|
| Heaven for the poor and slobs,
|
| But for me — like a bird in a cage!
|
| In the church; |
| stench and gloom,
|
| Preachers burning incense.
|
| No! |
| Even in church everything’s wrong,
|
| Not as it should be.
|
| To the mountain I rush,
|
| So that something there might be,
|
| On the mountain stands an alder,
|
| While below a cherry tree;
|
| If only there were ivy on the slope;
|
| I’d get some joy from it,
|
| If only anything else;
|
| It’s not as it should be.
|
| Hey one, yes
|
| Once again;
|
| Hey one, yes
|
| Many-many more times…
|
| Then to the field I go,
|
| Along the river bank;
|
| Some light, some darkness — but no God!
|
| While in the pure field;
|
| There are cornflowers and a distant road.
|
| Along the road there’s a deep forest
|
| With Baba-Yaga witches;
|
| And at the road’s end;
|
| Chopping blocks and axes.
|
| Somewhere the stallions dance in tune,
|
| Unhurried and easy.
|
| Along the road everything is wrong,
|
| But at the end; |
| completely.
|
| Neither in church nor the in the bar-
|
| Nothing is held holy!
|
| No, my friends; |
| everything’s wrong,
|
| Everything’s wrong, my friends!
|
| Hey one, yes
|
| Once again;
|
| Hey one, yes
|
| Many-many more times… |