Время колокольчиков [Vremya kolokol'chikov] [English translation]

Long we walked through heat and frost,

Endured it all and remained free,

We ate snow with birch-tree porridge

And grew as tall as the bell-towers.

In wail we spared no salt.

In feast – sweet honeybread.

Bell-ringers with their black calluses

Tore at the nerve of the copper loudspeaker.

But times change day by day.

The domes lost their gold.

Bell-ringers wander the earth.

The bells are cracked and broken.

Why do we beat around the bush

On our own field, like an underground?

If a Bell wasn't cast for us,

Than it's a time of little bells.

Heart, sing under the shirt.

The crows scatter away hastily.

Hey! Bring out the troikas

And let's set off to the four ends of earth.

But the horses weren't shod for years,

Wheels weren't oiled.

There's no whip. The saddles are torn.

All the ties are long undone.

Still, in the rain all the roads are rainbow-like!

A tragedy looms. How can one joy in a time like this?

But if there's a bell under the shaft bow,

Good enough. Load and go!

We'll roar, whistle, warble,

It'll reach to the bones, to the fingertips.

Hey, brothers! Can you feel in your gut

The dreadful laughter of Russian little bells?

For ages we chewed prayers and swears.

For ages lived in the darkness.

Slept and drank liters around the clock.

And we no longer sing. We lost the habit.

We waited a long time. Walked unclean,

And hence looked alike.

But under the rain we turned out to be diverse.

Most of us honest, good.

So what if our father the Tsar Bell is broken,

We came with black guitars.

Because Big Beat, Blues and Rock & Roll

Enchanted us from the first strokes.

In our chests are sparks of electricity.

Hats to the snow – go for it as loud as possible.

Rock&Roll1 is a good paganism.

I love the time of little bells.

1. Another version is "mayhem".