Je n’ai rien dans mon coeur ce soir*
I have nothing to say or give,
No shouts to break down these walls,
No clever or bright metaphors
To cover up this big nothing world--
I have merged with the nothing brain--
The big nothing banana
Beneath the hollow peel--
I'm nothing like you’re nothing--
All you say, all you write, all you hope for
Will amount to a big pile of
The absurd little dream of fools,
Wearing proudly their badge
In the year of Nineteen Hundred
and Ninety-Seven,
When nothing happened--nothing at all--
Except some idiot got drunk and laid,
And some miserable bastard got shot,
Celebrating his nothing birthday
In the circle of his nothing friends,
And somebody important had died,
Having done absolutely nothing…
Yes, I thought I had something once--
A tiny speck of the magic dust--
But the fools took my heart away,
Turned it into a pile of dung,
And that’s how I always sing
My sad little birdie songs:
Boo-hoo-hoo, ooh-la-la, Anne Marie,
Je n’ai rien dans mon coeur ce soir--
In these fields filled with nothing dreams
I’ll plant this ridiculous verse
Like a sign that is pointing to
My sad heart that is filled with
There is nothing here to love,
There is nothing here to dream,
There is nothing here to scream,
Except loud, empty toasts to
I’d tell you if I could,
But I can't,
And my tongue’s like a rudderless ship,
It will wag, it will turn, it will lick
The refreshing and flavorful
I’ve met you somewhere before,
Staring long into your empty eyes,
I've seen you in laughter and lies,
And I said:
"How do you do, Mr. Nothing."

                                                    --Alexander Shaumyan
                                                       December 13, 1997

*French:  "I have nothing in my heart this evening."