Trains leave Těšín each quarter of an hour
I haven’t slept yesterday and I won’t rest my head today either
Saint Medard, my patron, taps his forehead,1
But as long as you’re singing, you’re not dead
I’ll buy a bun and salty sticks at a food stand
My heart exists for love and my head is for songs
School taught me well what I’m supposed to do
But as long as you’re singing, you’re not dead
I paste another one into my ticket album
I departed a while ago, the end is too far to see
Life passes by in a blur outside the window like a folding book
And as long as you’re singing, you’re not dead
I got myself fooled a hundred times, and paid a dear price a hundred times
The caterpillar ride sways and sways
Even if vultures descended on my body
As long as I’m singing, I’m not dead
Trains leave Těšín for as far as the edge of the world
I picked up a phone and asked, “Folks, are you there?”
And from a great distance, an echo told me
That as long as you’re singing, you’re not dead
That as long as you’re singing, you’re not dead
1. a gesture of exasperation