Worn Down

I've never been this worn down, not before,

In this grey frost and sludge, I'm sinking to the floor.

I dreamt of Ryazan's sky, so wide and pale and cold,

And of my restless life, so tangled and so old.

So many women loved me, and I loved a few in turn,

Maybe that's why the dark force made the bottle my concern.

Endless drunk nights and chaos, with melancholy in the mix,

That's why my eyes are eaten, like blue leaves by a worm's slick trick.

I don't care about betrayals, victories don't thrill me now,

The golden hay of hair turns grey, it bows its head, it bends its brow.

It turns to ash and water when the autumn haze is poured,

I don't regret the years gone by—I won't go back, I've sworn.

I'm tired of torturing myself with pointless games and strife,

Now I prefer the quiet light, the calm of death in this thin life.

It's not so heavy now to limp from one dive bar to the next,

We wrap the wild nature up in concrete, it's our twisted test.

Inside me, by the same cold laws, the furious heat is tamed,

But still I bow to those old fields I once so wildly claimed.

To the lands where I grew under the maple, free and young and wild,

I send my greetings to the sparrows, crows, and owl that cries each mile.

I shout to birds across the spring horizon, loud and clear,

"Dear birds, take this message through the blue shiver in the air:

Tell them I've caused enough chaos, I've played my part, I've done the deed,

Let the wind now take the fight and slam against the wheat."