I decided to try translating Vladimir Vysotsky's "Gypsy Poem". It's a difficult poem to translate because it's very informal. Vysotsky sang his poems - he was the John Lennon of the Soviet Union. He gave voice to the discontent and dissatisfaction with the "socialist workers' paradise" that led so many Russians to drink themselves to death.

I'm not sure if it works. I'm not sure if the translation makes much sense in English at all. It's an existential cry, and it will probably make more sense if you've ever been way too drunk - first you try to sleep, and then the next day you're depressed and irritated and unhappy.

In my dreams are yellow fires,
And I'm snoring in my sleep:
"Just wait a bit, just wait a bit -
The morning will be better!"
But in the morning, nothing's right
The merriment is gone:
And you either smoke non-stop
Or drink to kill the headache.

In the taverns are green carafes
And white tablecloths -
It's heaven for paupers and for clowns
But I'm like a bird in its cage there.
In the church there's stench and dark
And deacons smoking incense;
No, in church there's nothing right
Nothing's like it should be!

I run to the mountain, fast as I can
No matter what may happen;
There's an alder on the mountaintop
And underneath, a cherry tree
If only the slope were covered with moss,
That would give me comfort;
If only something more were there -
Nothing's like it should be!

I wander along the riverbank
There's a cloud of light, but no God!
In the open field the cornflowers grow
And the road goes far away.
Along the road's edge is a dense wood
With Baba-Yaga witches;
And at the end of that road
Stands a gibbet and its axes!

Somewhere horses dance in step
Reluctantly but smoothly.
Along the road, nothing's right
And at its end - especially.
And not the church, not the tavern
Nothing at all is sacred!
No, my friends, nothing's right,
Nothing's right, my friends!