На чёрный день [Na chyornyy denʹ] [English translation]

There’s a faint dance of butter fingers* and cock-eyes for’ rainy day.

The second fell, the fourth’s been gaoled, has been lynched the poor eighth.

Right to the cables from ‘neath the wheels, and to three letters** from ‘neath asphalt

In still waters madcaps drown themselves

In a cold sweat - the ripples radiate

An iron horse. The colour’s drab. The carven caterpillars lined.

The ride’s designed for tenderfeet - the horses running circle-wise,

And the wind-up kaleidoscope is rattling its distorting mirrors.

The wheel’s whirling speed accelerates,

And to the sound of marches heads are off.

The colored shawl’s been guttled by moth. The cards in hand are three and seven.

Whisking flies off with his tail the bull climbs up being heavy-laden.

The brows’ billiard balls have split in halves from impact rolling over

The both sides and to the corners of

The open spaces of the latitudes.

And in the broken showcases are the tatters of attires,

‘Neath the runners of the sleigh there’s someone’s flesh that’s volatile.

Poll*** behind the counter’s taking out of a beanie tickets for the tram

Goin’ to the nearest bridge,

And for the chopper, door and windowless.

In still waters madcaps drown themselves,

The wheel’s whirling speed accelerates.

• Artist:Yanka Dyagileva