A tea glass of sour ayran, a few broken wheat from the ground

 

A big fire, a big war is coming, 

An ancient shaman is blowing the apocalypse into our ears again, 

Tomorrow will be hunger, enemies and bombs in our meadows, 

Never mind the buzzing of bees, the off-key shrill song of flies, my love, 

Let's be hand in hand and eye to eye in the last minute Sur's breathless concert, 

A tea glass of sour ayran, a few broken wheat from the ground, 

Enough to satisfy me... 

Either we win, or we win, don't worry my love, Or we will all burn until there is no victory left to win in this beautiful blue boat of the universe...

The stars float like fireflies in the black lake, the broken oars of all our dreams in the space above us... 

All wars are ours, my love... 

09.41 in a village where there is no winning, all learning is a lifetime, my love, 

and losing the bitter, sharp honey of all the flowers that bloomed yesterday, hidden in the black hives... 

the most with a life and a sip of martyrdom, losing more than a spoonful of life burns us, my love... 

and my martyr's finger is in the air alone, pointing to the sky with a silent prayer for the bloody sinners...