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Related Songs

Поезд в огне
(Akvarium / Аквариум)
Истребитель
(Akvarium / Аквариум)
Прощание с красным флагом
(Evgenij Aleksandrovič Evtušenko / Евгений Александрович Евтушенко)


Album "Sestra Khaos" (Sister Chaos), 2002
Пятьсот песен - и нечего петь;
Небо обращается в запертую клеть.
Те же старые слова в новом шрифте.
Комический куплет для падающих в лифте.
По улицам провинции метет суховей,
Моя Родина, как свинья, жрет своих сыновей;
С неумолимостью сверхзвуковой дрели
Руки в перчатках качают колыбель.
Свечи запалены с обоих концов.
Мертвые хоронят своих мертвецов.

Хэй, кто-нибудь помнит, кто висит на кресте?
Праведников колбасит, как братву на кислоте;
Каждый раз, когда мне говорят, что мы - вместе,
Я помню - больше всего денег приносит "груз 200".
У желтой подводной лодки мумии в рубке.
Колесо смеха обнаруживает свойства мясорубки.
Патриотизм значит просто "убей иноверца".
Эта трещина проходит через мое сердце
В мутной воде не видно концов.
Мертвые хоронят своих мертвецов.

Я чувствую себя, как негатив на свету;
Сухая ярость в сердце, вкус железа во рту,
Наше счастье изготовлено в Гонконге и Польше,
Ни одно имя не подходит нам больше;
В каждом юном бутоне часовой механизм,
Мы движемся вниз по лестнице, ведущей вниз,
Связанная птица не может быть певчей,
Падающим в лифте с каждой секундой становится все легче.
Собаки захлебнулись от воя
Нас учили не жить, нас учили умирать стоя
Знаешь, в эту игру могут играть двое

Contributed by Konstantin Karasiov - 2006/3/7 - 20:48



Language: English

Three variants of English translation from
http://www.dharmafish.org/s1019/songs_...
Submitted March 5, 2002 by mimoza :

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.


Translator Notes:
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



Submitted March 13, 2003 by pevchaya galka :

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.



Translator Notes:
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.



Submitted June 15, 2005 by Dimitri :

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...


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.

Contributed by Konstantin Karasiov - 2006/3/7 - 20:52



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