Everything on the road has its purpose

Everything on the road has its purpose, Even if it's not obvious at first, It stings, it's a shame, you'd run off so no one sees… Knowingly setting course for the shallows. Now a takeoff, now rock bottom, now deep, Now so lonely, and yet so light, Now so joyful it actually feels bad, So sincere you just wait for the catch. And the jester who carries joy wherever he goes Suddenly quits singing, seeing what a vile lot Has gathered in a ring, raging in hysterics. "Have some shame, brothers, this is indecent!" But they're already in a trance, laughing, dancing, Stamping their feet, turning the earth into mush. And Masha and the bears from the narrator's tale Hastily bolted the shutters against this wild pack, Shut them tight, huddled into a corner So the ones outside wouldn't break in by chance And execute them all, the shaggy ones and Goldilocks. How on earth did they wander into a tale like this, And, as luck would have it, become the talk of the town… Oh, jester-singer, look who you're spinning your yarns to. They don't give a damn — like in the song, "wszystko jedno", And you bend over backwards, you try, but in vain. Your words are like pearls — on the road, Scattered about and rolling underfoot. Any minute they'll crack their own skulls, And then they'll rear up for sure, Then there's no escaping trouble, and these feet, A moment ago with the eyes of a prude, Will suddenly turn into wrath, unrighteous but wrath, And, mounting a bay horse without a clue, Without giving themselves the slightest account, Like a cadet company out of tarpaulin boots, Will march through, leaving a swamp behind. That's that, and then they're gone without a trace. The poet's eyes, full of sorrow: Who needs words? Are they needed at all? And is there any point talking to a killer under interrogation When he's already thrown himself into a dungeon, The kind there's no escape from? Let a kind word from loved ones serve as a charm, From the shore of conscience to the shore of reason — Wandering in eternity is a divine joke. Am I a trembling creature, or do I have the right? To some it's like air, to others it's poison. And that green, green grass of home… The airfield lights are fading into the distance…