Истребитель [Istrebitel'] [English translation]

Tell me my dear friend, why there's ambush everywhere?

Why for so many years we've got no life, really none?

Daisy flo-o-o-wers smell like bitter incense from inferno,

And Saint Andrew the Apostle carries Luger-made handgun?

Because there underneath a civilian's still walking,

In my head all has turned, heart is worried and telltale.

In the clo-o-o-uds above hovers menacing black fighter,1

All in gold-cloth and pearls from the cockpit to the tail.

Who's the pilot in it, who keeps pushing on its pedals?

Who turns its steering wheel, who smokes from its rear pipe?

Pilots are all in veil, you will hardly recognize them,

But to tell the whole truth - those two pilots're you and I.

Storm is tearing the sky, pure phosphorus-anhydride,2

All I wanted was love, but the plague is in cross-hairs.

Why not tear linen shirt,3 put an end to all the insults?

But the dark's in the eyes, its wing shadow's in my heart...

Exorcise, proud ghost, choke yourself on icy clenched fist.

We won't live either way, for you're braver with each year.

I will ma-a-nage somehow and will shoot my final bullet,

Drop the carrion from skies, maybe heaven will get clear.

1. Combat fighter aircraft2. Refers to the light and smell produced by lightning strikes3. To tear the shirt (on one's own chest): to challenge someone to an open barehanded fight