Заповедная песня [Zapovednaya pesnya] [English translation]

Nature, grant me a glass of Your milk I could hail -

Milk, retrieved from mysterious stars.

Like a fool I won't quail, and I'll put up for sale

My mental advance...

I will put a large bed on the countryside route,

Every horse I'll invite to this bed;

And grey-haired and mute I will run with a flute,

And no one's gonna tell me that I'm phony head.

And when finally Death comes to me for a sleep,

She will quietly lie down with me;

She'll tell me: "Give me more," and again She will reap,

And, Hooray!, such a joy it will be...

Angels, do not try blaming just me for all this;

Do not try twisting my tail with bars:

Someone must fathom beauty in depth, measure bliss

All the way to mysterious stars...