Darya, Darya, something burns in this city- Whether it’s the souls of the righteous, or a meteorite. But let it burn, while I sing, Only don’t ask me, what I love- Speakers aren’t learned, and the learned don’t speak. Van Gogh died, Darya, and I have not yet. Thus, Darya, Darya, there’s no need to draw my portrait. You can obtain real similarities Or phenomenal brutality- It’s all the same you are drawing yourself, I’m not here. God told Lazarus- I need someone alive. The Lord told Lazarus- Hey, get up and sing! And Lazarus said- I saw it in the grave. It’s not life, it’s the circus marabou, And you are their conjurer-clown, better move with me. Look: from the pipes there is no smoke, and in the gates a stamp. Smoke from not one pipe, and in each gate a stamp. Here everyone stole their own iron door, Sitting and not knowing, what to do now- Everyone has an alibi, but no one to answer before. And I sing to you, from this side of solitude, But while I sing, I turn the rivers backwards. And I don’t remember your name, or your patronymic, But you know, in you there is something, that compels this hen-house to shine. Thank you, Darya- it appears as if it’s time to go. Darya, Darya, they await us somewhere further along on this path. I was happy with your gods, But I feel- grass is growing under my feet; We poured out everything equally, Darya