Translations by Dzhrew

More-accurate-to-the-original version: A long memory is worse than syphilis Especially in a tight group of friends These Bacchanalias of reminiscence You wouldn't wish on an enemy. And an aging youth in search of a high Harbors an eternal question in his eyes And he pours the wine, while somewhere off to the side With focused attention, the electric dog looks on. And we keep our watch in the smoked-out kitchen In helmets of feathers and lead underwear And if someone croaked from asthma The troops didn't notice the loss of a fighter And marshaling our divisions is proof of our friendship-- Or fear of one of us taking a personal step. And on-high above the kitchen-fortress flaps A musty flag that looks like a swimming suit. Everyone here has a favorite method Of setting the glorious remains into motion. Guitarists cherish their snapshots, While the poets hang out in strangers' rooms. But it's been so long, phoning just one another Discussing how great a circle of friends we've got While that dog gnaws the walls In an eternal quest for new and tender hands. But the women--those we could think of as sisters-- Paint with poison the business ends of their nails And in all that moves, they see only rivals Though they pretend what they're seeing are fucking whores And such displays of love for those near Terrify me both by their sense and sensibility. But this dog--no stranger to paradox-- Is in love with these women, And from his point of view, he's right. Because the others here are no inspiration-- Not for life, not for death, not for a few lines of poetry. And one looks with amazement to the West And another with rapture to the East. And for ten years everyone's been studying their roles About how this decade is better forgot And that dog laughs at us. He doesn't think about questions of how or why he should be. This song has no end and it has no beginning. But there is an epigraph--a few phrases: We grew up in a force field so overcharged Any device would burn up just like that And according to logic, this dog isn't possible-- But he is alive, we sages didn't dream him up And my friends ask me, "Who's this song about?" And I answer mysteriously, "Ach, if only I knew..." ---------------- Sing-along version (you have stretch a bit in a few places--deal): You know a long memory is worse than syphilis Even worse in a tightly-knit group. Such Bacchanalias of sad reminiscence Even to wish on a foe would be cruel. And an aging youth sits here in search of a high While mulling the questions of life in his eyes And pours the wine, while with focused attention Somewhere off to the side's looking on, The Electrical Dog. And we keep our watch in the smoky old kitchen In helmets of feathers and lead underwear And if someone collapsed from the absence of oxygen Our troops wouldn't notice or help him find air. And we march in divisions as proof of our friendship-- Or of fear someone might take a personal step. And on-high o'er the kitchen, our fortress, a flag waves It looks like old swim trunks and smells like a moldy old fridge Everyone here has their own favorite outlook On rejuvenating their dying remains. Guitarists will hang on to photos and scrapbooks While the poets prefer to go relight old flames. But it's so many years, we phone just each other Discussing how great of a circle we've got While gnawing the walls, the dog carries on His eternal search for new hands to pet him, and scratch him, and rub. But the women here--those we could think of as sisters-- Paint on poison to cover their fingers and toes And around them they see only rivals so bitter They pretend they see whores at a nickel a throw (blow?). And these shows of affection for the ones we hold dear Scare me with the calculated aim of their sights But this little dog--no stranger to paradox He's in love with these women, And from his own perspective, he's right. 'Cause the rest of us here, give him no inspiration-- Not for life, not for death, not for even a rhyme. And one looks to the West in amazed concentration While the other looks East with his glassy, rapt eyes. And for ten years we've all practiced our roles About how this decade is better forgot And that dog chuckles wryly, amused at our worries The dog in the corner doesn't ponder what life's all about. Here's a song with no end, a song with no start. But it does have an epigraph--a phrase or a few: We grew up in a force field so overcharged Any device would burn up here in a second or two. And logical thought says this dog can't exist-- But he lives here among us, a master of stealth. And my friends ask me, "Who'd you write this about?" And I answer them slyly, "If only I knew that myself..."

Долгая память хуже, чем сифилис,  
Особенно в узком кругу.  
Такой вакханалии воспоминаний  
Не пожелать и врагу.  
И стареющий юноша в поисках кайфа  
Лелеет в зрачках своих вечный вопрос,  
И поливает вином, и откуда-то сбоку  
С прицельным вниманьем глядит электрический пес.  
 
И мы несем свою вахту в прокуренной кухне,  
В шляпах из перьев и трусах из свинца,  
И если кто-то издох от удушья,  
То отряд не заметил потери бойца.  
И сплоченность рядов есть свидетельство дружбы -  
Или страха сделать свой собственный шаг.  
И над кухней-замком возвышенно реет  
Похожий на плавки и пахнущий плесенью флаг.  
 
И у каждого здесь есть излюбленный метод  
Приводить в движенье сияющий прах.  
Гитаристы лелеют свои фотоснимки,  
А поэты торчат на чужих номерах.  
Но сами давно звонят лишь друг другу,  
Обсуждая, насколько прекрасен наш круг.  
А этот пес вгрызается в стены  
В вечном поиске новых и ласковых рук.  
 
Но женщины - те, что могли быть, как сестры, -  
Красят ядом рабочую плоскость ногтей,  
И во всем, что движется, видят соперниц,  
Хотя уверяют, что видят блядей.  
И от таких проявлений любви к своим ближним  
Мне становится страшно за рассудок и нрав.  
Но этот пес не чужд парадоксов:  
Он влюблен в этих женщин,  
И с его точки зренья он прав.  
 
Потому что другие здесь не вдохновляют  
Ни на жизнь, ни на смерть, ни на несколько  
строк;  
И один с изумлением смотрит на Запад,  
А другой с восторгом глядит на Восток.  
И каждый уже десять лет учит роли,  
О которых лет десять как стоит забыть.  
А этот пес смеется над нами:  
Он не занят вопросом, каким и зачем ему быть.  
 
У этой песни нет конца и начала,  
Но есть эпиграф - несколько фраз:  
Мы выросли в поле такого напряга,  
Где любое устройство сгорает на раз.  
И, логически мысля, сей пес невозможен -  
Но он жив, как не снилось и нам, мудрецам.  
И друзья меня спросят: •О ком эта песня?"  
И я отвечу загадочно: •Ах, если б я знал это сам..."