Don't cry, Eva, 'cause there's no room here
for your womanish tears.
The wind riots in Love Road
among the broken windows.
Look, the lovely poets squandered
the meaning of truth on gambling.
In empty vodka bottles*
they send S.O.S to the world.
Chorus:
Farewell to all of you, now I know
I won't settle all the important issues.
I walk alone there,
where they wait for me.
A few of my friends have been there for years already,
I always sing and play for them.
Once again, farewell,
we won't meet again.
The prose of life is friendship's executioner,
the thin thread snaps.
TV, furnishings and a small Fiat*,
that's the peak performance of our dreams.
Hey, prophets of my rebel years,
you overgrow with fat.
Money seized you with its claws,
treason flows forth your lips.