Франц Кафка - На галерее - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

(reads: Alexander Dubina)

If some kind of frail, consumptive rider on a nag on months without a break was chasing a scourge in front of a tireless audience in a circle of the arena of the merciless host, forcing her to spin on a horse, send air kisses, sway the case, and if this game was under the continuous hum of the orchestra and fans so And she continued in the faster future that was opening and further than the foggy and again growing clapping with his palms, which in fact is not at all his palms, but steam hammers-then maybe some young galer spectator would darting down the long staircase through everything Yaruses, rushed to the arena, shouted "Stand!" Through the fanfares always a rising orchestra.

But since this is not so, but a beautiful lady, white and ruddy, flies through the curtain that proud uniforms open before her; And the director, devotedly looking for her gaze, lies to her humble animals; Carefully planting her on the blue in apples, as if she was his favorite granddaughter, who goes on a dangerous journey; He cannot decide to give a sign with a scourge; Finally, overcoming himself, clicks them; Running with an open mouth next to the horse; monitors both jumping riders; cannot be attended by her skill; Trying to warn her with English exclamations; violently calls on the holding hoops of the grooms to be extremely attentive; Before a large seto-Mortaly, he spits, raising his hands, to silence the orchestra; Finally takes off the baby from a trembling horse, kisses both cheeks and cannot be satisfied with any applause of the public; And the rider itself, supported by him, stretched out on tiptoe, in dust clubs, with open hands, with a thrown head up, wants to share his happiness with the whole circus - because this is so, the galer spectator puts his face on the barrier and, drowning in the final march, like In a heavy dream, crying, not knowing it himself.

(translation by S. APTA)