500
Akvarium / Аквариум| English version 2 / Versione inglese 2 / Version anglaise 2 /... | |
| 500 [1] 500 songs, and nothing to sing The sky is turning into a locked cellblock Same old lyrics in a brand new font, A falling-elevator music. Desert winds whip through provincial streets My motherland, like a sow, devours its sons With the merciless precision of a supersonic drill A gloved hand is rocking the cradle. Candles are lit from both ends The dead are burying their dead Hey, anyone remember who's that on the cross? The righteous make like acid zombies And every time I hear that we're in it together I recall that the “Item 200” sells the best of them all The Yellow Submarine has mummies at the helm The Wheel o'Fun behaves increasingly like a meat grinder Patriotism means “Kill the infidel” This fissure runs straight through my heart The ends are lost in the muddy waters The dead are burying their dead I feel like an exposed negative Dry fury in my heart, taste of iron in my throat Our happiness is made in Hong Kong and Poland, No name will fit us anymore. In every young bud, a time bomb We're moving down the down staircase A caged bird can't possibly sing People falling in an elevator feel lighter by the second, Lighter, lighter. Dogs choked on their howls We were taught not to live, but to die standing up You know, two can play this game. Two can play this game. | 500 [1] There is nothing to sing amidst 500 songs. The sky becomes a cage with appropriate locks, New type has been set to accomodate old scripts, Jaunty couplets for the inmates of falling lifts. Dry winds rule the streets of small towns. My Motherland, pig-like, devours its sons. Much like a supersonic drill, implacable, Hands protected by gloves are rocking the cradle. Candles have been lit from every end. The dead are busy burying their dead. Hey, look, a cross. Anyone know who's hanging? The saints twitch, it's junkies they're resembling. We must be together, I remember having been told this, But all I know is which cargo gets the most dollars. The yellow submarine is manned by mummies. The wheel of laughter shares a lot with meat grinders. "Death to heathens! All patriots must do their part!" This crack has opened straight across my heart. In murky waters, there is no visible end. The dead are busy burying their dead. I'm an exposed negative, in the manner of the age, In my mouth - iron, in my heart - stale rage. Our delight is manufactured in the second-rate world, And no name could possibly suit us more. In every tender bud, something is ticking away. We are going down the staircase marked "one way". A bird is incapable of singing in captivity, Every second, the falling lift becomes freer of gravity, The cure for howling dogs is their own vertigo, We don't know how to live, only how to die while vertical. You know, this game doesn't have to be played solo. |
[1] Translator's Note: I took some liberties here and there. Much of the punch in the song comes from its structure and rhyme, and I tried to approximate it. The choice of "lifts" instead of "elevators" has to do with matters other than rhyme alone - first, it's closer to the British English that is taught in Russian schools and feels right, and secondly, it makes the imagery of vertical tension stronger. |
Boris stuffs this song full of English cliches that sound odd when transplanted into Russian: it's important to remember that "two can play this game," "burn the candle on both ends" etc. are not recognizable expressions. Oh, and this, dear reader: "Item 200" or "Cargo 200" is military slang for dead soldiers.