Начальник фарфоровой башни [Nachal'nik Farforovoy Bashni] [English translation]

The chief of The Porcelain tower

For many hours is drunken from gunpowder.

Pagan priests are dying on the tilth,

And are beating a drum from hunger.

And he, a midnight dreamer,

With his watch on a long strap,

Constantly attempts twigs on someone's brain,

And sends an escort to me.

And what do I have from such a situation?

I'm joyful from smell of fishes.

And there, where's a coolness of river,

I'm building my temple of crust of tree.

I'm not worthy of such an honor,

I'm happy that there, in the distance,

An approximate warrior is wandering

With my subconscious in his hand.

I'm not worthy of such an honor,

I'm happy that there, in the distance,

An approximate warrior is wandering

With a bottle of port wine in his hand.