Let It Be That By Vera Polozkova Translation

Let it be that - we are simply disconnected And all of it that was before is now neglected. Just as in an international call And I'll stop knowing what you whisper all Over her right ear, Petting her mere Hair. Listening to the cheerful imps Of your disturbing thoughts. A glimpse. And recognizing every rustle Around you. A twitching muscle. Here's the sound of keys jingling, Here are her fingers mingling With your fringe, here's the wind strangled in the curtains, The load of memories it burdens... Sms beep, the block is off, The parquetry squeaks yet the steps are easy, Flick of a lighter and that's it - the tone. How cheesy... And I'll stay a bit in the telephone booth Reciting poems of my youth. Awaiting for the firing of invisible squadrons in my temples to cease. Oh would I ever feel the ease? Of simple being, I'm happy as old colonel Frehley Who died with a reciever in his hand. Let it be that as if it's five years past. And we are all steady here at last. We're not as booming with the decibels, But we're worth a 1000 for a ticket. There might as well be time for cricket. We are working like real men, Making money as easy as trimming a bush. We stem. We're not giving our minds any downtime. What's mine is mine. And I am aware of what I am worth. It doesn't matter that nobody is willing to pay the price. We run in circles just like mice. We meet and knock back three Glasses of Chilean semi dry and you look at me. And then you say "I am pround of you, Polozkova!" But no - nothing breaks inside me. That August we were still drinking outside And you were wearing My jacket - we are joking, singing and smoking... Probably you never knew that from that night on you Become the protagonist of my hysterics and mimes. All anew. One day we'll recall this - And wouldn't be able to believe it ourselves... Let it be that my vim and naughtiness Are back; My slouch and flabbiness Are gone; And nothing's beating me inside No pain within me would reside. And there's no need to write My poems. How can I ignite? Let it be that I don't sob hoarsely with every chorus Just like a dyed-haired singer with little morals. How nice that you're sitting In front of the screen and thinking That you're reading Of somebody else.