Где мы летим [Gde my letim] [English translation]

Where are we flying? And how long has it been?

Who has sent us? Who'll answer for Creation?

We are the first rock through the window frame,

First blow of cold wind of our civilization.

Poured in the gist, the reasons are uncertain,

But 'high's in it, the life is full of change.

Stern men are playing jazz, live jazz on dark night bar scene,

The Moon is spinning fast in glass of Beaujolais.

Night, night, night...

Night, night, night...

Night was sparkling in your glowing black eyes,

Night was burning fingers of colored lips.

Dear secrets of yours were all turning to dust,

But [the] world out there is so vulgar and wicked...

Sleeps on the desk - Rimbaud's "Le Bateau ivre",

Paris the Marxist in feverish phantasm,

You're Cleopatra 'n Tsvetaeva's jabot,

I'm Pierre Bezukhov in thirtieth century spasm.

The pilgrim-world turns page in Cocteau's "Night."

Where are we flying and what will meet us there?

"Life is too short," the flying auto sings,

Your Earth's aglow in neon dawn's cold stare.

Night was sparkling in your glowing black eyes,

Night was burning fingers of colored lips.

Dear secrets of yours were all turning to dust,

But [the] world out there is so vulgar and wicked...