I don't think you considered yourself to be a god,
You just wanted upwards,
Having reasonably decided that it is warmer there than downstairs.
And I am curious now
How you are feeling there now,
Now that all the logs are in your eye.
You were laughing in the face,
You were shooting from the back
You were throwing sand in my eyes,
You created your "karma" for ten lives in advance.
You thought that if two keep silence,
The third one is sure to agree,
Forgotten to specify by what you had stitched up his mouth.
Now it's time for us to say good-bye,
But I will not give you my hand.
I am sorry for you, but your fingers are covered with dirt.
And I don't care how you're gonna live by the river killed by you,
And what you feel in this connection.
You lived selling your portrait to virgins at a ruble per hour,
The one that I painted from you the day before yesterday.
You were shouting about winds,
But woe betide the one who put the sails up for you,
As your weather vanes stopped dead "at attention" position.
And you are the flutist, but it is not the flute of heaven,
It' s not even the flute of the earth.
Thanks God, you did not have time to cause harm.
I always said that they'll fall down, and they buried you.
There have never been skies without rain.
Don't expect me to forgive you, don't wait for me to judge you.
You're your own court, you've built the prison yourself.
But if a certain angel comes in here by chance,
I would like to know what you will respond to him.