To my father…
25/05/1946 - 06/02/2024
How many songs that I didn't write?
Count them for me,
How many left, cuckoo?
Tell me.
Where am I to live, a city or the outskirts?
Will I be a stone or will I shine like a star?
A star…
Sun of my eyes, look down at me.
Look, my palm has turned into a fist.
And if you got powder, spark it for me.
Like this.
Who will now take on this lonely path?
All the strong and brave ones have fallen in a fight,
A fight…
Just a few remain in sound mind and memory,
With a firm hand, and still in our ranks.
Our ranks…
Sun of my eyes, look down at me.
Look, my palm has turned into a fist.
And if you got powder, spark it for me.
Like this.
Where are you now, freedom and free will?
Who are you with now, greeting a rising sun?
Tell me…
Life was good with you, and bad without you…
My patient head and shoulders suffer under a whip,
A whip…
Sun of my eyes, look down at me.
Look, my palm has turned into a fist.
And if you got powder, give me a spark.
Like this.
Sun of my eyes, look down at me.
Look, my palm has turned into a fist.
And if you got powder, give me a spark.
Like this!
Like this…
(By Viktor Tsoi, “The Black Album” (1991). Translated by me).
Thx for sharing julie.