Черные Волки [Tshorniye Volki] [English translation]

The black wolves- inspectors of the forest,

They open a line in the books of night.

They know that not everything will come back

But they stand on their own path.

The black wolves are servants of fire,

Incorruptible, even when the dwarves toss them a bone.

The silent shadow of respectable days,

The flesh of the flesh- your stony guest!

Hey you, nights of the plane,

Monsters of gags and mouths,

Your fear is in the cavity of velvet armchairs-

Protection from the drafts!

But the wind, through the long path of cellars

Fed up with the moisture of melted ice flows

Carries resoundingly through stuffy halls

Our rhythm, our hymn!

My strings are my pain,

My wind is my will,

My notes are my roll,

My cry is my word!

My walls are my scum,

Your heart is my desire,

My truth is my power,

My bread is my spite!

The black wolves are the children of winds,

They know the breath of typhoons and stillness,

Their hope is in the flame of newly lit bonfires,

In our faith, those against us go to rubbish!

The wolfish light is a detonator for glass lenses,

The infrared night begins to split.

Again the peacock hides behind a paper fan of blood,

So away with fear, away with lies!

My strings are my pain,

My wind is my will,

My notes are my roll,

My cry is my word!

My walls are my scum,

Your heart is my desire,

My truth is my power,

My bread is my spite!

• Artist:Agatha Christie