500
Akvarium / Аквариум| English translation 3 / Traduzione inglese 3 / Traduction anglaise... | |
| 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. | 500 [1] 500 songs - ain't nothing to sing Heaven turns into a bolted cage Same old words reprinted in a new font A comedian strophe for the falling in an elevator A fair hot wind's blowing down the streets of the province My homeland's eating up its own children like a pig With the implacability of a supersonic drill Gloved hands are rocking a cradle Candles are burning at both ends The deads are burying their own deads... Hey, anyone remember, who's pinned to that Cross? Saints are being put through the mincer with acid Every time I'm told we're together I recall the best deal is "Cargo 200" Mummies are at the helm of the Yellow Submarine "Wheel of Fourtune" reveals itself to be a mincer Patriotism is equal to "just kill the dissidents" This crack runs right through my heart No chance to discern rope ends in the murky water The deads are burying their own deads... I feel myself like a negative exposed to light Dry rage in my heart, taste of iron in my mouth Our luck is made in Hong Kong and in Poland No name on earth suits any longer; There's a time bomb in every young bloom We're moving down that staircase leading downward A tied up bird cannot be singing The falling in the elevator are feeling better every second Dogs are barking at the top of their lungs We weren't taught how to live but how to die proudly You know this is a game for two... |
[1] Translator's note: Boris showing his dark side? compare with careless ZZZ - what a change! "Cargo 200" is a cynical military code for coffins from Chechnya. I saw there were earlier translations - this is just to supplement. |
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.