Walking through a minefield, you should not think about,
What black and red lurks behind every flower and Bush,
What is in the midst of chamomile eyes, between full silver vultures
You will be turned into a falling, dirty, shapeless mushroom.
Walking through a minefield, watch the clouds go by,
As the grass bent down under the cheerful wave of the wind,
Like a brave grasshopper - no hearing, no rhythm-a monk, alone,
Brings out a squeaky trill-ecstatically, easily, from all feet.
And you do not wave your hands-they say, " Achtung!""Zuruck!", "minenfeld!".
Let him walk quietly – like summer, like the wind, like FET;
For every breath you take, you expect to hear "Bah-Bah!"or" boom!".
Why should he know whether he would break off into the sky and remain intact?
And what about the one who looks at the sight aimed at the heart?
Let him wander at random in the spaces of his planet,
Where there are no other suitable fields for free walks.