| It is over nearsighted eyes |
| Not trusting dumb tears |
| That the conveyer of sand crawls |
| Until the hand remembers |
| The brass knuckle trembles at the temple |
| The slanted board is calling |
| I’m at the peephole, under the heel of the ceiling |
| At the entrance was an egg or a hard-boiled word |
| I turn my face |
| Dream jerked with nightmare |
| A newborn mason sings with me in unison |
| A winged breeze scorched the peaks of far-away rocks |
| And here it caresses the lawn. |
| For this there is a special reason |
| For this there is a special department |
| For this there is a special regime |
| For this there is a special reason |
| Through the cracks, a convoy |
| Will seal the windows with grass |
| We will be led to the slaughter |
| A hero will cross himself |
| A loose column of prisoners will step |
| Forward, for the motherland, into battle! |
| And the evil enemies will perish |
| Those who didn’t put boots on |
| Who didn’t bid farewell to themselves, |
| Who didn’t kill themselves, |
| Will all be taken to the slaughter |
| For this there is a special department |
| For this there is a special regime |
| For this there is a special reason |