words: Rada translation by Yulya Fridman from an album `Sad Songs' (Печальные Звуки). Dream ...And so the dream begins: to awake is to hope, In the gloom of the dead, for a single spark of light. No one to care for me, no shelter to take me under but a strange house meant for me, which I am to call home. ...And so I came home; alien walls surround me For some reason, bitter taste on my lips, That of betrayal. My throat feels dry, but that's with another's love Thin arms covered in someone else's blood Speak to me, oh speak to me!.. Bitter taste on my lips. At the windows, alien eyes are watching, Icons on the walls, yet none of my faith among them, Bitter taste on my lips, That of betrayal. In the fields of the netherworld Every step brings a naked pain, The sky's weaved into a spiderweb Of the colour gray (will of the heart --- abandoned), Of the colour red (which means faith lost). ...And the pain rings within, for each step, a clearest ring of pain. Night. The day gone tastes dry on my lips with my whole body I see with my love I see the white wall of fire, every morning on my bedside. The dreams of the day gone chased away, what remains is one single thought: that earth is a smoke, the life, but a dream, a white cloud pouring into the house, night. Stepsons of love fragile, the fine dust coming off their butterflies' wings, they are trying to reach the light of some memories lost. The fluffy beast of a sun gives away its dusty dawn crawling from behind the wall, making it through our faces. Who will remember us --- for we are the children without a home, Who will sing our songs for us? Is there anyone to memorize the colour of our eyes, For the sake of our souls, to light a candle? Sadness. Walls made of wood here, no place to fly An impact could break your wings It's the sadness, trying to reach the sky Late in the autumn, singing. Walls're made of wood, to break with your head, Tearing through thin veins, to break your peace, It's the sadness flying, late in the autumn Touching a wooden plate, striking another. It's the sadness flying, and the birds are blind Late in the autumn, Leaving the houses, empty and void, Striking at the walls. Nothing to be done here, the sadness flies off Late in the autumn, Leaves must be old, wet by the rain, Torn by the wind. Leaving the houses, empty and void, The sadness flies off. No traces left in the passes untreaded, Just the smell, which is ahead, The grain is about to fell in the soil, The sadness so planted will spring out When the words, gentle and kind, in a low voice, When all the words are said.