С войны [В твоем парадном темно...] [S vojny [V tvoem paradnom temno...]] [English translation]

Your front door hall isn't lit,

Ever sharp odors get in the nose.

Your flat is a top floor dwelling;

There you felt that stars are so close.

You walked without rush, returning home from war.

With a sweet taste of victory,

Bitter taste of done wrong.

You are home, but the door

Has a different lock.

She waited for you forever,

But your return has been blocked.

And the last night at home was spent shedding passionate tears.

You failed to come home again,

And she let in her fears.

Fears looked into her eyes

With reflections in dark windowpanes.

Fears spoke lies, that it is the case when

Everyone gains.

Fears, they did point at the door, and they showed a new lock.

And by placing a key in her hands, fears did all

For your return to be blocked.

And you went to the yard, and you sat by the wall –

A dog that got lost.

You put your troubles on hold,

And you turned numb from the frost.

And you've sensed that if you would rush, you would come in time.

Not much could be done and if so,

You took your guitar and you sung your rhymes.

But these neighbors protest; they never can understand

The singer’s need to share.

The neighbors don’t like what you’re singing,

They only are used to bear.

They all are used every evening to enter this hall reassured.

If there is a prohibiting sign, they remember:

Always look for a detour.

But you were singing songs of your choosing,

Happy and sad.

And that hubbub gathered some folks, and you lost in straw drawing:

“Bring wine for the lads!”

An empty tin can for the cup, and it was refilled with cheap booze

And so, you have warmed yourself slightly,

It's now hard not to snooze.

And you told them about your life,

Even how you been to the war.

But when you heard “Musician, stop telling these lies!”

You pressed your back to the wall.

Your strike was the first blow, because that’s how Dad taught you to fight

And you stole one more look at the windows above.

That’s the moment when she

Had switched off the light.

Your front door hall isn't lit,

Ever sharp odors get in the nose.

Your flat is a top floor dwelling;

There you felt that stars are so close.

You walked without rush, returning home from war.

With the sweet taste of victory,

Bitter taste of done wrong.

• Artist:Chaif