Like Apollinaire – with soft words,

I though, what I overcarres you...

But I’ve wrapped around my hand

Barbed wire – bloody, long...

And even so I took my boots off

I was smelling of my thoughts

Thoughts crooked like any dick

Thoughts like rainy, heavy clouds...

And Benedict’s strong fist

Hanging over sleepy head

I was looking in his eyes

Can he hear your swan-song?

Let the night carry your singing

Up your ears! It is worth!

Let Amadeus turns in his grave

Let him curse – it’s not his note...

The rust that I feed, that I grow

Resistant for any words

The rust that I feed, that I grow

Resistant for any words

The man who carried the Christ

He’s got a knife in his hand

When he will mature – he’ll strike

You know, I know – I deserve

The night carry your song

Up your ears – it is worth!

Julius turns in his grave

Let him curse – that’s not his words...

The rust that I feed, that I grow

Resistant for any words

The rust that I feed, that I grow

Resistant for any words

The rust that I feed, that I grow

Resistant for any words

The rust that I feed, that I grow

Resistant for any words...^[2]