November days
Bewitching in a sense
I stare out of the window
Muddle-headed
Such sulky looks of passersby
And withered roses on the desk
Same sulkiness and withering in me
Forever

My comrade P. is slightly outraged
The knife is honed and spilled with blood
I dance with fairy-mushrooms on the stage
My wooden horses lined-up at the start

And flies together with black crows 
Float through the heavens getting nuts
I feel like hundred-year corpse
I feed meat-hasher with my guts

My ******* fatherland in red
Is getting mossy day by day
I look at it from high above my head
While comrade P. is turning into clay