To sing

The truth has moistened my throat,
I wouldn't be daring to sing.
It would have been overly short
To live, after what I have seen.
The careless smell of the smoking,
The noise of the roofings unfit.
Me - down to the terminal walking
The end of the thoughts and the freed.
Forty and two. Not a minute
Of need any more. And the light
In the lantern is fading. The fidget
In the colorful glass of the sprite.
The thread and charade have been torn;
The cords have been caught in a grip
The tribute is hurried. Don't mourn
All over me from a grief.
Your cab-man has zero possessions,
The stallion mister is drunk!
I don't want to have after-session
On how not to fall in a dump. 
I don't want to hear from the gutter
The waltz of the drained shabby pipes.
My song is crude and unuttered
The whistle my brisk lip applies.
The truth has watered my gullet,
To make it in time I won't dare.
Everything time had to go off 
Will not be transformed into flare.

self-translated on 12/06/17