Speaking In Tongues
Guided by Voices

Yevgeny Samuilov

Translated by Alec Vagapov

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May our great ideals live for ever!
One takes this motto getting under way.
When he steps out of his door, however,
He totally forgets about it right away.
One doesnt like straight roads that stretch ahead
Nor shoulders, straightened up, in spite of stitches.
Blessed is the one who humbly hangs his head
And makes obsequious, complaisant speeches.
A rascal and an honest, man however,
Is buried in the same old earth, as ever.



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With time we take too close to heart
The circle of some friends which we had once,
Propinquity of souls that came too hard
And sacrifices of our beloved ones.
In our life, which has been long so sour,
We have forgotten our conquests in a rebel.
We seem to watch a motion-picture now:
A cordial talk, a family at table.

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Its known that the less we eat
The faster were fed up and sated,
And our hunger is abated,
And it its the sense of life, is it?
We think it does make sense to wait
for months until we get our wages...
Blessed is the nation which for ages
Has had to bear such a state.
What has been earned by dent of work
We take as their condescension,
Or leavings thrown to the dog
A sigh of great consideration.
I know the cost of bread of mine
And, thinking of my daughters ailing,
I know that I have reached the line
Where hatred find its place of dwelling.
Those saved by love are not so rare;
God Pardoned Judas in old times...
When there is hatred everywhere
Theres abundance of vampires.
Thus hatred is a kin of mine
To sin and anguish Im fated.
I claim: there is no remedy from hatred
(Dont try to make me change my mind)...

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Youre wearing red. It does become you, dear,
Whereas my heart is broken, bleeding.
And, like a bullet, in my head one thought is spinning:
Why have I come to you? Why am I here?
Youre wearing red. And red denotes a ban.
While I am like an aged man in dotage,
Or, like a ship, that sends a trouble message,
I need a helping hand, and there is none...
Youre wearing red again and look your best.
You own the town which I love so dearly,
The hunger Im suffering from severely,
And those who couldnt quench my thirst.
Youre wearing red. And you dont blush, nor frown,
As you look down on the whole wide world,
And all you have to say now is the word:
Whos here, giving me an axe and bending down?..

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The candle light was warm and bright as day,
For me, my wife and our little daughter.
Spring buds of willow in the alter
Were shining on the Easter silver tray.
I saw confession, in seclusion,
Tie in a bundle all the sins
And burn them like confounded things
Declaring: Now you have your absolution.
Next came the sweet bright fast, of course,
Communion takers came up to the bowl,
To take a gulp so that the soul
Might share the blood from crucifixion cross.
My soul aspires to the height,
Away from solitude, transgression,
So that I come to comprehension
Of Holy Altars candle light...

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Her love is grown in the kitchen
Amidst the wrangle, fuss and rush,
The world of dream, for which shes itching,
And which, she faintly hopes, wont crash.
She hopes that splashing her all over
With worldly froth, the waves will send
A ship to her, from which her lover,
The handsome Grey, is to descend.
The night will then roll up the sail
And hoist it at daybreak, on leaving,
The sailors, drinking rum, will hail
The couple wishing them long living.
The sunray will search out the wonder,
Sliding about the crumpled sheet...
...Youve washed the dishes? Dont meander,
Now bring him quickly food to eat...
Forget about the magician,
Dont spill the soup bringing the tray
To muscled man, full of ambition,
Who can be anyone but Grey.
You humbly bear pains and ailment,
Perhaps you will find this blow of use:
The world of fairy-tales is alien
To gluttons, thats the simple truth...