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Posts tagged: dyagileva

"Na Cherniy Den’" - On This Black Day

For some reason this one song kept coming back into my mind. Na Cherni Din’ by the post-Soviet folk punk singer, Yanka Dyagileva seemed strangely appropriate. She was from Siberia and died of a strange suicide by drowning at the age of 24.

My preferred song from her is a 70 second ditty called  Печаль моя светла. If anyone can translate that properly, I’ll be amazed and impressed.

The song starts with an upbeat guitar intro, before kicking into some defiant angry lyrics by my favorite Siberian Punk rocker. I had no idea why I was listening to this Russian song so often, so I decided to google the translation of the lyrics. And I find that “Na Cherni Din’” means “This Black Day”. How apt. The word “Din” sounds similar to the Urdu word for day (pronounced D’in). So angrily singing about a day, with a guitar blazing with joy in the background? Intriguement.

Here’s a translation of the lyrics in the third comment, and my, coming from the bubblegum world of Pakistani pop, they are bleak. But you know another trait this Siberian Folk Punk girl had? They were defiant against the darkness.

Na Cherniy Den’ (On This Black Day)

On the black day a tired dance of drunken eyes and pierced arms
Second one fell, third one sat, the eighth one was taken to the circle
Onto the wires, out of the wheels and to the 3 letters from under the pavement
In to the calm deep pool of a hot head
Cold sweat running out in circles

Steel horse, protecting color, carved caterpillar band in the raw
Attraction for the newbies – horses are floating in circles
A clockwork kaleidoscope is rattling with curve mirrors
The wheel is spinning faster
Through sounds of march, off with the head

The moth has eaten colored shawl, the cards show 3 and 7
A bull whisking away the flies with its tale, with a hard heart is coming up the hill
Billiard balls has collide
And went apart onto both sides
And to the corners of spaciousness

Behind the shattered shop windows – tore parts of holidays costumes
Under the hobs of sledge – alive flesh of somebody elses plans
Under the counter the parrot is taking tickets out of the hat
To the tram to the nearest bridge
To the helicopter without windows and doors
To the calm deep pool of the hot head
The wheel is spinning faster