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- Nov 27, 2024
How the Soul Died in a Cabin of Meat
(Как в мясной избушке помирала душа)
Original Russian text by Igor "Egor" Letov
How the soul died in a cabin of meat...
How the soul passed away in a cabin of meat...
How the worthless soul rotted in a little hut of meat...
How the soul vanished in a little hut of meat...
That beautiful red summer, many went mad.
That summer, the worthless little people went mad
envying the hurrying ravens
that were pecking the eyes of dead baby mice
piled up by good hardworking fingers
into tidy festive pyramids.
That summer I smashed my forehead into pieces
against the majestic virtues of
vengeful memory,
watching by accident as the soul died in a cabin of meat...
As the soul passed away in a cabin of meat...
Someone set fire to dry reeds...
and bravely went for a ride on a little sleigh
and when it came time to load the reeds,
he reflected...
He coughed repeatedly...
He carried them up a hill like he did with his dead mother
and tossed them in the middle like nothing.
He reflected...
He sat and strained himself...
He sat and reflected...
He sat and tensed himself...
He gave up everything, he thought for fun.
He thought of four letters
but they didn't come —
there wasn't enough power.
So he sat and looked at little bubbles and eternity.
He gazed at little bubbles and eternity
as the soul died in a cabin of meat...
As the soul died in a little hut of meat...
It was as nauseating as a fish.
It was as nauseating as a pigeon,
and the little houses fell up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
up and down.
A plastic tank declared a puny war on a plasticine universe.
The prodigal sonny boy left forever.
He had no time to return.
He wasn't able to return.
He went too far, he wandered too far.
He wandered too far, he strayed too far...
That summer I chewed, with crooked teeth,
the raw little cutlets of my own feebleness.
That summer I didn't cry anymore...
That summer I didn't live anymore...
Nothing happened
to me anymore...
Bunnies prowled in the burning grass...
At dawn someone knocked on the window,
silently, quietly.
No one heard.
No one opened.
(Как в мясной избушке помирала душа)
Original Russian text by Igor "Egor" Letov
How the soul died in a cabin of meat...
How the soul passed away in a cabin of meat...
How the worthless soul rotted in a little hut of meat...
How the soul vanished in a little hut of meat...
That beautiful red summer, many went mad.
That summer, the worthless little people went mad
envying the hurrying ravens
that were pecking the eyes of dead baby mice
piled up by good hardworking fingers
into tidy festive pyramids.
That summer I smashed my forehead into pieces
against the majestic virtues of
vengeful memory,
watching by accident as the soul died in a cabin of meat...
As the soul passed away in a cabin of meat...
Someone set fire to dry reeds...
and bravely went for a ride on a little sleigh
and when it came time to load the reeds,
he reflected...
He coughed repeatedly...
He carried them up a hill like he did with his dead mother
and tossed them in the middle like nothing.
He reflected...
He sat and strained himself...
He sat and reflected...
He sat and tensed himself...
He gave up everything, he thought for fun.
He thought of four letters
but they didn't come —
there wasn't enough power.
So he sat and looked at little bubbles and eternity.
He gazed at little bubbles and eternity
as the soul died in a cabin of meat...
As the soul died in a little hut of meat...
It was as nauseating as a fish.
It was as nauseating as a pigeon,
and the little houses fell up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
up and down,
up and down.
A plastic tank declared a puny war on a plasticine universe.
The prodigal sonny boy left forever.
He had no time to return.
He wasn't able to return.
He went too far, he wandered too far.
He wandered too far, he strayed too far...
That summer I chewed, with crooked teeth,
the raw little cutlets of my own feebleness.
That summer I didn't cry anymore...
That summer I didn't live anymore...
Nothing happened
to me anymore...
Bunnies prowled in the burning grass...
At dawn someone knocked on the window,
silently, quietly.
No one heard.
No one opened.
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