Текст песни Денис Фокин - III Брадобрей. Бродский. Post aetatem nostram.

Boy abandoned barber
stares silently in the mirror - it must be
sad about him and completely forgetting
soaped client’s head.
"Probably the boy will never return."
Meanwhile, the client is quietly napping
and sees purely Greek dreams:
with the gods, with the kyfared, with the struggle
in gymnasiums where there is a sharp smell of sweat
tickles the nostrils.

Removing from the ceiling
big fly, making a circle, sits down
on a white soapy cheek
asleep and drowning in foam
like the poor peltasts of Xenophon
in the snow of armenian, slowly creeps
through dips, ledges, gorges
to the top and, bypassing the mouth’s mouth,
climb strives at the tip of the nose.

Greek opens a terrible black eye,
and the fly, howling with horror, takes off.