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 Love (to Ada Cetrina, heroine from the book 'Perversia' by Y. Andruchovitch) 1. This is the sound of the music of love. Nothing is more beautiful. The conscience keeps quiet, and no one knows, How it will go on. Mysterious silence Is concealing the consequences of The Perversion. You are not here; where are you, Ada? Where are you? Distant bright stars, Your mad eyes Gaze with immense love. I can't stand Living without you. I cannot love you. 2. Another day without you, I grow more and more sick. Why is there no one writing to me? Ada, where are you? I claim up the stairs, In chains, And come into Nirvana. 'Rape me!' Achtung?! Achtung! Listen! Pull yourself together! With the first beats, we are up on your stage, Wheather you want it or not, we are in your place. As one soundsystem. Our rhythm section is a projection Of the rhythm of your heart. In the context - your thoughts. In the lyrics - the moment of truth. When I touched the strings of the lyre for the first time, Waking the magic sounds of the Creator, And putting love poems to the melodies… And then - school, the model of society, The fate of a delinquent, Army, emigration, asylum, deportation. And then - another part of life - Looking for higher vibrations. My service for the nation as part of the Haydamaky formation… I put candles on the altar of the living god. Put them just on the windowsill. I look at the world; see the sun rise, see, how everything is, and I am happy. I earn my pences with singing, and try to give an objective evaluation of all I see around me - at your request. MC Yarema, artistic power of the centre of Ukraine culture - Haydamaky. Sing, even if you got no bread! 1. Sing, even if you got no bread! Go and wander, even if you have no hut! Naked and hungry, but free! Your soul will fly to paradise after death. Keep silent, if you don't speak your own language! Lost your conscience, go and jerk off, Poor you! You can't feel love - so sleep, And you will see sweet dreams. 2. Who wants to live must run. Slowly flows the river of people. But you, vagabond, thank God, For this is not your fate. You are not like the rest, Not like your neighbour, Not keeping silent, not hiding, not sleeping, when you got something to say. You speak up, when you hear a lie. 3. You have no laws. Your country is a prison to you. Don't murder, don't steal, and if have stolen, don't get caught. A principle, you have known since childhood. Sing, even if you got no bread! Go and wander, even if you have no money! Naked and hungry, but free! Your soul will fly to paradise after death. November Poets write songs to not waste their time on earth. But the systems, they are working, watching them, buying them, judging them, locking them away. No one needs their thoughts, and love is condemned in this beastly world, Out of which the new man is born. Be gentle with him: he is still a child! Then came November, and suddenly you realized, that you had lost your dreams Since your blood had been spoilt by the poisoned arrows. Your body dies every night, the soul escapes Through the walls of the council houses, Shocked, what is happening to us. And again your soul forgets where to return to, Finds itself a new body in this beastly world, Among the floating cars, tasteless songs, sad eyes, and images, which spoil the blood. But maybe, it only turned November, And you just haven't got used to the changes yet? Maybe it's you, who is already gone? Don't hurry too much with your lifes. Suddenly, you wake up and realize, And see everything around you in a new light - So many shining eyes, beautiful people, songs, Which encourage our children of the future to live - embrace and bless them! Poets write songs not wanting to waste their time on earth. But the systems, they are working, watching them, buying them, judging them, locking them away. They turn quiet, slowly disappear, the songs become forgotten. The people stay home in their council houses, which they don't leave anymore! Translation (C) Armin Siebert |