Романс 1 («Давным давно мой бедный брат...») 1985
Translated by Re-Miel ©


Alas, my brother, many moons no fire lights up your eyes. 
An illness blind gnaws at you, encompasses you whole.
Oh yes, since those fair eyes disturbed your simple soul,
At feet of Idol, day and night, you burn a sacrifice.

Does then the history stand still ? As ages ebb and wane, 
Do our desires stay so dark, our idols so cruel.
This altar you have brought your faith will pay you back with ruin,
You're so young, why have you cast your life into its flames ?

Is that just so that when at last she leaves you to your pain,
You suddenly could clutch my hand and in a torn voice render,
That you have loved her so true, so honest, so tender,
As never should the Heavens let her to be loved again. 

At field of battle, at gaming table I've seen you face the strife.
You never once asked for respite, you never lost the hope,
Yet that which ails you is so vast, I'd try to help you cope, 
But cinder on that altar too the embers of my life. 

Alas, my brother, fever yours I all too well can feel,
Nor am I singular in this, no - half the world is burning,
And rising embers sing the praise to Idol's reign of torment,
But it was us, who lit the flames, in paganistic zeal.

And what's to do if nothing would extinguish those flames ? 
If shivers from an olden fright still haven't ceased to haunt me ?
When wind would whistle, when wheels would creak, when curtain falls, it taunts me, 
Over and over again with echoes of one name...