Drowning in the phlegm of Vilnius,
The city drenched in blood of our forefathers,
Where pagan stones are crushed and carved into right-angled bricks,
Where aitvarai, the godly kites we clip, carry the burden of our presence...

Sinking like Crusader’s ships in the Baltic Sea,
I go down with the waves of this eternal water
Running like infection in a vein.
Across the city,
Runs this river
Forevermore,
My life,
My vanity,
My decadence...

I’d beg forgiveness
If I knew you would believe my lie,
But, yes, I know you won’t believe a word,
And so
I am not sorry.