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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.

Copyright © Agatha Jetaime | Year Posted 2015

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