Lyrics and translation Benyamin Nuss - The Serpent Trench

The Serpent Trench

لالایی دودو
بابایی تو چرت
سالا بی پولو
داراییش بود فحش
که کوچولو میگرفت از طلبکارا به بابا نمیداد
با خودش میگفت بابا جونم از این فشارا نمیخاد
هر دفعه دست بابایی میرفت سقوط کنه بچه مینشست ببینه این دفعه نوبت کدوم گله فرشه
که بسوزه با سیگار
رو فرشا جای سوختگی نوستالژیای بچگی
بو تریاک الودگی نوستالژیای بچگی
دعوای خونوادگی نوستالژیای بچگی
نوستالژیای بچگی بچه ای که هیچی نفهمیده بود از بچگی جز دیدن دو تا الت خماری نئشگی
نئشگی افسردگی
دست بابایی شل یه سقوط دیگه رو گل یه سقوط دیگه رو گل
همیشه انگار یه چیزیش هست (3)
کانون گرم خونواده
بارون سرد تو نگاهش
فرشته به پوچی رسید
بابا تو چرت و مامانی قهراره
واسه کوچولو حالا که قهرمانه
گناهش چیه که بدنیا اومده تو خونه ای که صورتا عین برج زهر ماره
برج قبل اجاره برج بعد اجاره
بابا خرید نسیه اسیر قصه همیشه مثل مرده سرده اره سرده اره
اغوش نفهمید اغوشش
بدترین اموزش, پرورش تو محیط بی عشق عصبی الوده
دهنی که بوی سیگار میداد زیاد نبود سیرش
دستی که بوی سیگار میداد نوازشش نکرد
دنیا رو رنگی میدید از تو خاکستری میشد
حرفاشو قرنطینه کرد دم از شرایطش نزد
روحش شد فرش زیر پاش پر از سوختگی پر از زخم بی حساب
بزرگ شد اما اتیش گرفت کودک درونش
موند یه مشت خاکستر از بچگی بجاش
تو چشاش همیشه انگار یه چیزیش هس
انگار یه چیزیش هس
همیشه انگار یه چیزیش هس
انگار یه چیزیش
همیشه انگار یه چیزیش هس
به تنها جایی که سر میزد زانوهاش بود
همیشه انگار یه چیزیش هس
نه یه طرف تاریک داره نمیشه ببینیش اصلا
یه خلوت داره به عمق نداشته ها
یه لبخند پر از توهم نوازشا
کاشته هاش رشد نکرد خاکش خوب نبود
یه ظرفم داره پر از بذر نکاشته ها
زخمی و رنجوره خیلی وقتام تلخه
تلخی بامزه بودنو میفهمه
روزای زوج خونه میمونه اکثرا فرده
بیرونم باشه جریمش چند قلم درده
اولا سرده دوما خنده ادما رو میبلعه
شاد بودن یادش رفته اشک میده بیرون
میگنده
سوما تنهایی رو تنهایی میچینه تو تنهای بعدش
کمبود محبت داره انبوه اندوه انبار دلش
سرکوب سرکوب ته مایه اش
همیشه انگار یه چیزیش هس

The Serpent Trench

Lullaby Do-Do
Daddy, you're napping
Years without money
His possessions were curses
That the little one would take from creditors and not give to daddy
He would tell himself, "My dear daddy, I don't want this pressure."
Every time Daddy's hand was about to fall, the child would sit down to see which carpet would be his turn this time.
That it would burn with a cigarette
The burn marks on the carpets are the nostalgia of childhood
The smell of opium pollution is the nostalgia of childhood
Family quarrels are the nostalgia of childhood
The nostalgia of childhood of a child who understood nothing of childhood except seeing two bent penises, intoxication, and addiction
Addiction, depression.
Daddy's hand, limp, another fall on the carpet, another fall on the carpet.
It's like there's always something wrong (3).
The warm home
Cold rain in his eyes
An angel has reached emptiness.
Daddy's napping and mommy's angry.
For the little one, who is now a hero.
What's his fault that he was born in a house where the faces are like cobra venom?
The tower before the rent, the tower after the rent.
Daddy bought on credit. The prisoner of his story is always cold like a corpse, yes, cold, yes
He didn't understand an embrace.
The worst education, upbringing in an environment of lovelessness, nervousness, and pollution.
A mouth that smelled of cigarettes, he was not satiated enough.
A hand that smelled of cigarettes did not caress him.
He saw the world in color, from gray to black.
He quarantined his words, did not talk about his condition.
His soul became a carpet under his feet, full of burns, full of unhealed wounds.
He grew up, but his inner child caught fire.
There remained a handful of ashes from his childhood.
There's always something in his eyes.
It's like there's something wrong with him.
It's like there's always something wrong with him.
It's like there's something wrong with him.
It's like there's always something wrong with him.
The only place he would go was his knees.
It's like there's always something wrong with him.
No, he has a dark side, you can't see it at all.
He has a solitude as deep as his lack.
A smile full of imaginary caresses.
His plants did not grow, his soil was not good.
He also has a pot full of unplanted seeds.
He is wounded and sick, often bitter.
He understands the bitterness of being funny.
On even days, he stays home, mostly odd.
If he's outside, his punishment is a few pains.
Firstly, it's cold. Secondly, people's laughter swallows him up.
He's forgotten how to be happy, he cries outside.
He's rotting.
Soma loneliness gathers loneliness into loneliness and then loneliness.
He has a lack of affection, a huge amount of grief stored in his heart.
Suppression, suppression, that's what he is made of.
It's like there's always something wrong with him.