A ballad about frankness
Vladimir Bondarenko
[Tr. by I. Shambat & V. Bondarenko]
I'm in the light, open to every eye.
I do as I did often. Like to an Icon
I come up to my microphone... Today
It's more like I'm approaching a cannon.
And I'll not rub against the microphone.
Ah, my full voice is nuisance 'ver the city.
I know, if a single lie just comes on
It will augment it, centuple, without pity.
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me.
Shimmer lamps into my face, unkind.
And projectors blind from every side.
And the heat. The heat. Is blind.
Today I'm getting hoarse beyond control.
But in the tone I don't risk making change.
For had I'd made a turn inside my soul
It would unbend the curve with violent rage.
The beast, than the thinnest blade it is more thin.
The flawless hearing, it hears lie till the iota.
It does not care that in beat I don't fit in
But that I more completely sing the notes!
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me.
Shimmer lamps into my face, unkind.
And projectors blind from every side.
And the heat. The heat! Is blind.
Upon its lissom neck this microphone
Is rolling with its snake surveilling head;
If I get silent - it will sting at once.
I have to sing - till stupor, till the end.
Don't move, don't stir, don't touch, don't even dare!
I saw the sting - you are a snake, my Raja!
A serpent-charmer, I've fallen into a snare.
I do not sing, I'm sirenizing a Naja!
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me.
Shimmer lamps into my face, unkind.
And projectors blind from every side.
And the heat... The heat... Is blind....
It wants to eat, and with a birdling's greed
It snatches the sounds out of my mouth.
In forehead it will drive nine grams of lead.
I can't put up my hands, they're guitar-bound!
Again! Is there a hope to end the race?
What is my microphone - who will respond me?
Today it's like the Lamp against the face,
But I'm not holy, and there's no light from the microphone.
My melodies are simpler than the scales.
But barely beating from my candid tone -
At sight, I'm badly hit across the face
By an immobile shade of microphone.
Rays beneath the lamp on ribs do beat me.
Shimmer lamps into my face, unkind.
And projectors blind from every side.
And the heat. Is blind. Is blind. Is blind. Is blind!
I'm in the light. I'm open like a pike.
A lull? A storm? Or what expecting can one?
Like to an icon I'm coming to my mike.
No. No.
Today I'm approaching a cannon.