Ночная пьеса [Nochnaya pyesa] [English translation]

It’s Christmas – a nocturnal play, the decorations from the forest,

Cranberry cordial made of blood, and glued-on eyebrows,

Loneliness made out of clay, special effects out of a body

Souls foaming with lather, chalk spots on the cheeks,

A paper-mâché cliché…

Clouds of cottonwool slavery – here’s the family, here’s the cave.

Unlearnt parts, faith curled up on navels.

Snow for gauze; for spotlights, stars; and the neophytes have scattered;

The director shouts and rages; he could do with a drink, too.

Just look at that rogues’ gallery – in each face something of its creator…

The backer sleeps, dead Barbie has cellophane, aces, sixes,

Cries, dust, a prompt, tinfoil, and her chicken leg.

In the wings wait the troops with the wooden swords,

The captain with nailed-down moonbeams is scratching his temple with the muzzle of his pistol:

It’s not a victory, but regret; not a regime, but…

At the ring of a bell, the scenes have started to flow, in the auditorium is a mournful land

It regards hope, faith and charity with gloomy eyes.

Four-letter words in the air over Palestine, the roaring of beasts, a cardboard mountain,

Varieties, secret reasons, flags fly from the concrete.

All the Magi’s gifts have been stolen – the manger become a weapon

The hungry watchman made off with them. How are we to perform the play, O God?

We need more dazzling devices, Lord,

To make the Star of Bethlehem shine out more thickly.

Electricity has eaten up and consumed the wire…

I grieve, watch the spectacle: in the third layer of perspective

Lies the preserved body of an infant

He sleeps in Peter the Great’s cradle,

Smiles at the blizzard and winks at me.

Putin rides across the land

On a silver steed.

Putin will help all the people,

God save him.

He will fell all the bandits,

Pour out largesse to all good workers.

Putin rides across the land,

And we are just where we were… [in the shit]