Let us drink of lands I will never sail to,
of the sphere I fear and trifle with.
Hail you my Columbi of Command Center,
agronauts of my navigation wreath.
As the crosswalk gateway is sticking upright
and the shadows ripple on the steps and walls,
warm the mole up, keep the jet ignited,
slowly start to pedal the jet-black balls.
Chorus:
Push away from home the shaky creel,
desperately spin the steering wheel,
in the cabin world hold hands a-heading
where God does not know what's under our keel.
That's my body map of the space entire,
hollow quartz bubble's exhausted drain -
blow the fog horn from the very mire,
in the tank of sentence woe in vain.
Never shall this hull ever run aground;
to the polar roadstead, the flame inside
my kaleidoplane, my Flying Russian
Seeker 3 off-route a-glide, a-glide.
Chorus x2
Translation approved and distribution authorized by the author.
Original: www.mumidol.ru/gorod/distrust.htm#6
Video: www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBdEWoXUZ9M
Theory: kibirov.livejournal.com/710756.html
Kaleidoplane: es-la.facebook.com/MeliMeloCreations/posts/304193039646619