Misfortune’s not in asses, not in roads –
it is – that being drunk with vodka’s bottle,
we don’t repent of our sins to God,
we don’t believe, that Soul is immortal.
Now we are crying, now are laughing,
no reason to both, no rules or foundations,
and we are bowing like an autumn’s aspen,
and suffer from winds’ gusts with patience.
Not recognizing foolishness or nonsense
with spiteful envying the fate of other countries,
we sing the praises of a blockhead or a thief,
stupidly watching the TV-screens,
their radiation is so long, and patient,
and seems to turn into intoxication.