In our life, beautiful, and strange,
and short, like a stroke of a pen,
over a smoldering fresh wound
to think about, right, it's time.

To become thoughtful and to look narrowly,
ponder, while alive,
that there lies in the twilight of the heart,
in his blackest pantry.

Let them say that your deeds are bad,
but it's time to learn, it's time
do not beg for pathetic crumbs
mercy, truth, good.

But before the face of the harsh era,
that in own way is also right,
not to mooch pathetic crumbs,
but to do it by rolling up your sleeves.