×àñîâíèöèòå ñïðåòå, òåëåôîíèòå äà ãè èçêëþ÷èòå
êàæåòå äà íå ëàÿò íà ãëàäíèòå ñè êó÷åòà.
Ñìúë÷åòå ïèàíàòà, è ñ ãëóõî ïðåäèçâåñòèå
êîâ÷åãà äîíåñåòå, äà äîéäå ñêðúáíî øåñòâèå.
Íåêà ñàìîëåòèòå íàä íàñ äà ñå çàâúðòàò
âúâ êðúãîâå, èçðÿçâàéêè â íåáåòî “Òîé å ìúðòúâ”.
Ñëîæåòå ÷åðíè ïàíäåëêè íà áåëîâðàòèòå ñè ïòèöè
è ïîëèöàèòå ïî ïúòÿ äà ñëîæàò ÷åðíè ðúêàâèöè.
Òîé áå ìîé ñåâåð, þã áå, ìîé èçòîê è ìîé çàïàä
ðàáîòíàòà ìè ñåäìèöà, íåäåëíèÿ äåí êðàòúê.
Îáÿä áå, ìîÿ âå÷åð, è ïåñåí áå, è ñòèõ.
Àç âÿðâàõ, ëþáîâòà ùå áúäå âå÷íà. Àç ãðåøèõ.
Çâåçäèòå ñà íåíóæíè äíåñ, òÿõ âñè÷êè èçõâúðëåòå
îò ìåí ëóíàòà ñêðèéòå è íåêà ñëúíöå äà íå ñâåòè.
Èçëåéòå îêåàíèòå, ìàõíåòå è ãîðèòå
îò òóê íàñåòíå íèùî äîáðî íå ÷àêàì â äíèòå.
Funeral blues
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.