Oh you towering Giants,
don’t you dare crumble
before I’ve peered past your heads.

A Feeling


He’d tell me of a feeling he’d get from time to time.
When-wariness would drowsily lower her shield, drunk on lethargy,
when things would grab hold a little too tightly
and the beats would become synonymous with scarcity of breath.
He’d describe it as a sorrow
and a guilt
and a regret.
A fear
and an anxiety
and the deepest passion.
It’s all of these things, he’d say, and it leaves me goddamn empty.

The Villain and Angel (Негодяй и ангел – Наутилус Помпилиус)

The Villain and the Angel got together once,
around a poker table far in the back.
The Villain took out four aces and
the Angel was stuck with a jack.
And so he unzipped his wings from behind,
and threw them onto the cloth;
and the sky looked on with a cheerful smile
through cracked windows of mould and froth.

The Villain shoved the wings into a bag
and took them down to get pawned.
And with that money he bought a deck
of marked cards of which he was fond.
He returned to the game and offered to him
to “play for all that remains”.
And the sky would glance slyly down at both
from the high skyscraper panes.

It all ends the way it should always end –
as the choir begins to sing,
with the dragon killed, slain with a spear,
and the princess accepting the ring.
The Villain now peddles feathers all day;
sells down from the great Angel’s wings.
But the Angel still flies so high, high above,
Unaffected by all of these things.

So what is the moral of this story? Well,
I’d say that this fable has none.
One was born with horns in the fire, while
The other with wings in the sun.
How you were born is how you will die,
Looks like you’re needed that way,
to the sky, who looks over all of us
with such delight and dismay.

This is the song that was translated:

Her Way of Life

They say a shark swims to survive,
Bees gather pollen for numerous hives,
Baby can’t wait ‘till her mother arrives.
She grows up, but she still shakes hands with knives.

Rivers tumble the logs downstream,
Chemicals polish them up to a gleam,
Conveyors whisk them off to places unseen,
Flames and saws – death in the machine!

Oceans of tears roll down her cheek,
Blankets of plastic (so she’d fit in with the clique),
No longer will she be known as a geek.
Under the knife, they make her a freak.

Lessons are taught, especially for the old,
She started to melt, as the doctors foretold.
Tomorrow she’s scheduled for a remould,
But by the end of the night, her pulse is stone cold.

Candles, a priest and a hole in the ground,
They placed back the dirt and in the soil she drowned,
Her skin didn’t rot – to her it’s still bound.
Perfectly preserved, archaeologists found!