serghiy zhadan "postman" amateur english translation
For my friends from abroad, especially from NL i've decided to translate the awesome poem of Сергій Жадан about "eastern europe trip of death". hope, it makes sence and you'll enjoy my amateur work and fix mistakes.
He was a postman in Amsterdam.
He listened Abba and used tram.
He watched some porn on weekends.
His friends were radicals and drunks.
They said: “We losers, we’re in shit,
we lost our time, and our state
is decadent, liberal and overrate.
Its just a miracle we still alive
with takers from left and bribers from right.
Who talk about freedom
and sell us shit instead of weed.
But there is country on the east.
Perhaps the only one, the last.
Where freedom shine, where freedom blast,
where openly minded people sincere.
We must break through the cultural code,
build bridges for international cheer!
There in the homes no place for hate.
There love from Moscow Patriarchate.
The churches save from witches will,
the churches pray for your own guilt.
There all the factories and plants
still guided by the righteous guilds
and workers sing in common farms!
There absinthe treats the cold and flu
there demons live in women's bodies
they’re hiding abyss in their throats
indulging all your shameless thoughts.
Don’t be a pussy, bring us afganka!” -
repeated they to him with wrath.
And he decides to take the path.
By “Donbass air” with booze for breakfast
he left schengen with dreams of reckless
and crasy state. He left behind all boring past
and stepped the ground of Donbass.
He spoke greek language and could bet
with this he’ll definitely get
well understood by everyone
and even driver he just met.
The driver had old Ford to drive
and weirdo friend - “cold turkey guy”.
And stars were shining brightly.
“Hey dude! Relax, - the driver said, -
Feel home - there only friends around,
the Promised Land goddam!
Join us - we’re heading to Stakhanow
they have good gush - not crap from Amsterdam!”
The space was bound by the evening darkness
it was the winter - february began.
The moon was chasing them like hawk so heartless
the spoil tips shined like gloomy fane
the cyclones nighed the Ukraine
and souls fainted in deep snow.
Somewhere in fortieth kilometer
the car just stuck in evil whirl.
Wrapped with the muddy murk so bitter
and driver claimed “I think, my brother,
we all screwed up - it seems we dead
so, Johan, pray and ask godfather
or who you pray instead!”
The fuel frozen and the voices sank
the death came from the Azov ports
with devils of the grief escort.
For warming up he drunk cologne
and tried to call in night
the words were “Number you are calling
is not available right now.
You know, the life you sprawling
is careless process here somehow
its like you’re sinking in deep river
your death is nuts and not big deal
it’s just a change of operator, a signal hush
- another turn of wheel”.
He was a postman in Amsterdam.
He listened Abba and used tram.
He watched some porn on weekends.
His friends were radicals and drunks.
They said: “We losers, we’re in shit,
we lost our time, and our state
is decadent, liberal and overrate.
Its just a miracle we still alive
with takers from left and bribers from right.
Who talk about freedom
and sell us shit instead of weed.
But there is country on the east.
Perhaps the only one, the last.
Where freedom shine, where freedom blast,
where openly minded people sincere.
We must break through the cultural code,
build bridges for international cheer!
There in the homes no place for hate.
There love from Moscow Patriarchate.
The churches save from witches will,
the churches pray for your own guilt.
There all the factories and plants
still guided by the righteous guilds
and workers sing in common farms!
There absinthe treats the cold and flu
there demons live in women's bodies
they’re hiding abyss in their throats
indulging all your shameless thoughts.
Don’t be a pussy, bring us afganka!” -
repeated they to him with wrath.
And he decides to take the path.
By “Donbass air” with booze for breakfast
he left schengen with dreams of reckless
and crasy state. He left behind all boring past
and stepped the ground of Donbass.
He spoke greek language and could bet
with this he’ll definitely get
well understood by everyone
and even driver he just met.
The driver had old Ford to drive
and weirdo friend - “cold turkey guy”.
And stars were shining brightly.
“Hey dude! Relax, - the driver said, -
Feel home - there only friends around,
the Promised Land goddam!
Join us - we’re heading to Stakhanow
they have good gush - not crap from Amsterdam!”
The space was bound by the evening darkness
it was the winter - february began.
The moon was chasing them like hawk so heartless
the spoil tips shined like gloomy fane
the cyclones nighed the Ukraine
and souls fainted in deep snow.
Somewhere in fortieth kilometer
the car just stuck in evil whirl.
Wrapped with the muddy murk so bitter
and driver claimed “I think, my brother,
we all screwed up - it seems we dead
so, Johan, pray and ask godfather
or who you pray instead!”
The fuel frozen and the voices sank
the death came from the Azov ports
with devils of the grief escort.
For warming up he drunk cologne
and tried to call in night
the words were “Number you are calling
is not available right now.
You know, the life you sprawling
is careless process here somehow
its like you’re sinking in deep river
your death is nuts and not big deal
it’s just a change of operator, a signal hush
- another turn of wheel”.