Vysotsky: Translations: Alec Vagapov.

Vladimir Vysotsky: Songs: Trans. by Alec Vagapov

Vysotsky's Lyrics: Translation by Alec Vagapov

Apples from the garden of Eden
The ballad of a bath-house
The ballad of the time
The birds are alarmed here, boding no good...
Both the pets and the wild beasts of prey...
The city romance
The common graves
Execution of mountain echo
The fords are deep. The bridges have burnt down...
He hasn't returned from the fighting
I am fated to argue to very last day...
I am on the job
I have two selves in me
I honor Dorian Gray and Faustus...
I love you now
I need changes 'cause for years...
I was fond of nasty tricks and women...
I'll answer all your questions
I'm feeling shivery again. My heart...
The icy world
If you are in a strange land at night
In the beginning there was a Word
In my soul
The informer
It's no use to talk to you. I think
The letter
Make a bridge on the occasion...
The masks
My heart aches, so does my head, I think...
My own island
My sorrow won't fade
The one who didn't shoot
The reincarnation song
Saying good-bye to the mountains
The ships
The silly dream
The song of clairvoyant Cassandra
The song of the criminal code
The song of the new times
The song of the white elephant
The stars
The story of the Truth and the Lie
Suddenly our trodden ways must part...
The tale of the wild mammal
There is the entrance but, you know...
Up to the mountain height
We were to meet. I waited for the day...
Well, now, my hands don't shake at all...
What the hell, you viper...
When by the rhymes and poems I get bored...

Source: Speaking In Tongues
All the rights are protected. Contact the author: sevaseva@onyx-mail.da.ru

The tale of the wild mammal
Russian title: Pro dikogo vepria

In a kingdom where everything was quiet, 
With no cataclysms, no wars and no shocks, 
A monstrous animal came as a plight, 
A kind of buffalo, a bull or an ox. 


The king had stomach trouble and asthma 
Frightening everyone to death with his cough. 
In the meantime the terrible monster 
Ate up people, or carried them off. 


The king proclaimed three decrees that ran as follows: 
"We must now do away with the beast, 
The one who dares to do it, I promise, 
Will take my daughter, the princess, to the priest." 


In that kingdom outraged by the catcher 
Somewhere right near the border line 
There lived a one time peerless archer 
Who enjoyed his disgraced, reckless life. 


There were people, wrapped in skins, on the ground, 
Their feast was going on with a swing 
When the air was rent by a trumpet sound 
And the archer was carried to the king. 


"I'll not lecture you on morals, you youngster," 
Said the king as he coughed like a beast, 
"If you manage to kill that big monster 
You will take our princess to the priest." 


The archer said: "Your award is quite senseless! 
I would rather have a barrel of wine! 
I don't care a thing for the princess,- 
With the beast I shall work out fine." 


The king said: "Yes, you shall marry the princess, 
Or I'll throw you to prison right off 
After all, it's the king's lawful heiress." 
"No," - the man said,- "ne'er in my life!" 


While the king was arguing with the weird man 
The big mammal, that monster,- oh my! - 
Had eaten up almost all hens and women 
And would hang around now nearby. 


Nothing doing, they agreed on the wine, and 
He killed the monster and ran off with the game. 
That is how the disgraced archer happened 
To put the king and the princess to shame.

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The story of the Truth and the Lie
Russian title: Pritcha o Pravde

Delicate Truth, all dressed up, had a beautiful bearing, 
Smartening herself up for cripples and wrenches and freaks. 
Lie tricked the Truth into visiting her at her dwelling 
Telling her that she could stay for the night, or for weeks. 

Gullible Truth fell asleep with no bad premonition, 
Slack'ning, she broke into frivolous smiles in her dream. 
Rough Lie pulled up to herself all the blanket and cushion, 
Driving her sting through the Truth she was pleased, it would seem. 

Then she got up, and she pulled her a bulldog's face rudely, 
She 's only a woman, so why should she bother at all? 
There is no diff'rence between Truth and Lie, absolutely, 
(certainly, if you can strip them to swallow them whole)... 

Then she untwisted the beautiful band from her hair, 
Then grabbed some shoes and some clothes taking measures by sight, 
took all the money, the watch and the documents, too, lying there, 
swore like a fishwife, spit out and then took to flight. 

Only at daybreak the Truth had discovered the loss and, 
taking a look in the mirror, she stood in surprise: 
someone had daubed her with soot, she looked dirty and glossy, 
but on the whole, she believed, she was looking all right. 

When she was beaten and stoned Truth would laugh in their faces. 
"She has my clothes on. She lies. I reject all the blames ..." 
Two freaks wer' taking the minute. They weren't very gracious, 
scolding her angrily, shouting and calling her names, 

calling her "wicked" and saying "she's worse than just wicked", 
setting a dog at her, smearing all over with mud... 
shouting: "She's got to be exiled, kicked out, evicted, 
twenty four hours will be sufficient for that!" 

They wound up with a long angry scolding conclusion 
(having imputed additional crimes to the Truth): 
"She took the name of the “Truth”, for the sake of confusion, 
while she had swapped all her things for indulgence and booze". 

Genuine Truth wept and sobbed, swore by God and by honour, 
wondering, going through poverty, illness, what not. 
Dirty Lie'd stolen a thoroughbred horse from the owner, 
and she set off at a gallop before she got caught. 

There is a crank that still fights for the truth with persistence, 
though there is little of truth in what truth-seeker says. 
"Truth will undoubtedly triumph one day if, for instance, 
she plays the treacherous tricks as the lie always plays…" 


Sitting at table with friends, drinking wine or whatever, 
you never know if you'll manage to really get by. 
You'll be relieved of your clothing, as sure as ever. 
Look at your trousers worn by insidious Lie. 
Look at your watch on the wrist of insidious Lie. 
Look at your horse ridden by the insidious Lie.

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The reincarnation song
Russian title: Pesenka o pereselenii dush

Some may believe in Jesus, some in Mohammed or whatever, 
Some don't believe in anything, just to spite them all. 
There is a good belief in India, and it is rather clever: 
That when we kick the bucket we don't pass away for all. 
To rise to heaven you may strive: 
You'll have a dream when born again, 
But if you've lived a piggy's life, 
A piggy you'll remain. 
If people look askance at you, take all reproaches easy, 
Don't worry, you'll be born again a man with a mordant tongue, 
And if you've seen the death of a foe, there's every reason 
To think that after death you will be born a keen-eyed man. 
So keep on living, and have fun, 
Be happy and don't bother, 
Maybe, your soul will settle down 
In some big boss's body. 
If you are engaged in sweeping streets, you'll be an engineer, 
And maybe slowly grow into a minister in time. 
But if you're dull and stupid, you'll be born a baobab-tree an' 
Will remain one for a thousand years or more, until you die. 
It's bad to live a parrot's life, 
Or be a snake-like demon, 
Hadn't one better live a life 
Of just a decent human? 
Well, who is who and who was who, to this there is no answer, 
Geneticists are off their nuts o'er chromosomes and genes. 
Perhaps that shabby looking cat at one time was a rascal, 
And this good natured person was a friendly dog, it seems. 
I jump for joy, just like a kid, 
And I avoid all hindrance, 
A very good belief indeed 
Has been thought up by Indians!

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Saying good-bye to the mountains
Russian title: Proshchanie s gorami

To the bustle of streets, flow of cars, traffic blocks 
To city life we return, we come back, as it happens. 
We descend from the conquered high mountaintops 
And we leave our hearts, 
and we leave our hearts in the mountains. 
There is no use to argue about it, 
I have known for a very long time: 
There is one thing that's better than mountains, 
And it's mountains that we haven't climbed. 
Who would want to be left in the lurch, with no hopes? 
Who would want to give in, his heart disobeyin'? 
We descend from the conquered high mountaintops... 
Nothing doing: gods, too, used to come down from heaven. 
There is no use to argue about it, 
I have known for a very long time: 
There is one thing that's better than mountains, 
And it's mountains that we haven't climbed. 
Many beautiful songs, many hopes, words of love 
Are inspired by mountains, they eternally call us. 
Yet we have to descend, for a year or for life 
For we have to return from the mountains... always. 
There is no use to argue about it, 
I have known for a very long time: 
There is one thing that's better than mountains 
And it's mountains that we haven't climbed.

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The ships
Russian title: Proshchanie

They will stay for a while, 
And then they'll take course 
But they will return 
Breaking through winds a-wailing. 
And it won't take six months 
Till I'm back at my house. 
Just to set out again, 
To set out for a six month's a-sailing. 


Everybody returns 
But the best of our friends, 
And the best loving, faithful, 
Adorable women. 
Everybody returns 
But for those we need most 
I believe not in fate 
I believe not in fate 
Nor myself I believe in. 


Yet I really want 
To believe I am wrong, 
And that burning one's boats 
Will be soon void of meaning. 
I am sure to return 
Full of dreams, friends along, 
And it won't take six months 
And it won't take six months 
Till I get back to singing.

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* * *
Russian title: IA liubil i zhenshchin i prokazy...

I was fond of nasty tricks and women, 
And at changing them I didn't draw the line. 
There were stories about my demeanor 
And the numerous love-affairs of mine. 


Way down south near the sea - I mean it - 
I was walking once along the road, 
And I encountered one of those women 
That in my life I came upon a lot. 


She was kind, a very generous creature, 
And as open-hearted as could be, 
She was nicely shaped, and had fine features, 
While I didn't have a coin about me. 


What she wanted were little presents, 
Such as brandy, golden rings, perfume. 
In return she'd grant the little pleasure 
Of her dubious service, I presume. 


"If it comes to that, I'll give you, honey, 
The most precious thing I have," she said. 
"I agree,- I said,- to pay ye a hundred, 
Otherwise, I'll pool it with my friend." 


Women are like very angry horses, 
Bit between their teeth, they'll wheeze and chafe... 
I might've got her wrong, she was ferocious, 
Made her farewell and left. 


Later on the passions had calmed down. 
She turned up, her anger shaken off. 
My impression was that now she found 
The price I'd offered suitable enough.

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The city romance
Russian title: Gorodskoj romans

I happened to be walking around 
And I hurt two people by chance, 
They took me to militia grounds 
Where I saw her... and broke down at once. 


I knew not what on earth she was doing there, 
She was probably getting a pass. 
She was beautiful, lovely and fair... 
I decided to search out the lass. 


I just followed her, walking behind her, 
She wouldn't talk to a bully, I thought. 
Then I made up my mind to invite her 
To the nearest restaurant. Why not? 


As we walked people smiled at my pretty one, 
I was furious, my mind on the blink! 
I just smote the face of a weird man 
'Cause he dared to give her a wink. 


She found the caviar delicious, 
And I didn't grudge the expense, 
I ordered smash hits to musicians, 
And the last tune they played was "The Cranes". 


I made promises, showing my feeling, 
I repeated one thing the whole night: 
"For five days I haven't been stealing, 
Believe me, my love at first sight." 


I said that my life had been ruined, 
Blew my nose and wiped tears from my eyes, 
And she said: "I believe you, yours truly, 
You can take me at a reasonable price." 


I slapped her on the face in despair, 
I was boiling like crazy inside. 
Now I knew what she really was doing there, 
In militia, my love at first sight.

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The song of the new times
Russian title: O novom vremeni

Like the toll of the bell late at night heavy footsteps resounded, 
Thus we, too, will soon have to say our good-byes and get under way. 
Through the pathless terrain, at a gallop, had the horses come round 
Carrying their riders to a good or bad end, which no one could say. 

Times have changed, yet to-day, as before, we keep striving for happiness, 
And we chase it, running head over heels, but it leaves us behind, 
And on the run we're losing the best of our friends, as it happens, 
Without noticing even that our friends are no more by our side. 

For a long time to come yet we'll take any light for a fire, 
And on hearing the creak of high-boots, a menace we'll sense, 
Little children will play their old games of war, shoot and fire, 
And we'll long yet divide ourselves into enemies'n friends. 

And when rambles and fires and tears are all over'n done with, 
When our horses get tired of running and, faded, lose force, 
When our girls change their uniform coats into dresses and blouses 
I wish none of the moments would be ever forgotten, forgiven or lost...

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The song of clairvoyant Cassandra
Russian title: Pesnia o veshchej Kassandre

Though besieged and threatened to be torn asunder 
Troy remained impregnable to the assailant, 
if the Trojans had believed foreseer Cassandra 
it would probably have stood up to the present. 

The frenzied maid kept shouting like witless: 
"I clearly see Troy lay in ruins, fall and break!" 
But clairvoyants ( just like those who bear witness ) 
were always put to death by burning at the stake ! 

At night when death on Troy descended, coming out 
straight from the horse's womb, winged, like a sudden blaster, 
somebody cried over the terror-stricken crowd: 
"The witch! The witch is all to blame for the disaster!" 

That night, amidst the massacre, unrest and devastation 
when her predictions had come true now, like a dazzle, 
the crowd might have seized the suitable occasion 
to savagely inflict their usual reprisal... 

The end was rather disappointing, though not tragic: 
a certain Greek had found her abode's location 
and took her, not just as Cassandra with her magic 
but as insatiable conqueror's possession. 

The frenzied maid kept shouting like witless: 
"I clearly see Troy lay in ruins, fall and break!" 
But clairvoyants (just like those who bear witness)
were always put to death by burning at the stake!

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I love you now
Russian title: Liubliu tebia sejchas, ne tajno - napokaz...

I love you now, in fact, 
And I don't hold it back. 
It's not "before", not "after" - your rays set me afire. 
Whether I weep or I smile 
I love you in this while,- 
the future I don't want, the past I don't desire. 

"I loved you" (in the past) 
is worth than breathing last. 
My wings are cut, and I'm restrained by tender feeling, 
although the greatest poet stated once: 
"I was in love with you - my love may still be living"… 

As if it were disavowed, faded, 
for it implies compassion, condescension, 
it's what one feels for overthrown kings. 
There is regret in it for something outdated, 
subsided striving, softened aspiration 
and disbelief in "love you" kind of things. 

My current love has got 
no detriment, no spot. 
My age is under way - I want no venesection! 
At this continuous present I do not 
live in the past nor dream of future foundation. 

Through thick and thin I'll get 
to you somehow, you bet! - 
my feet put into chains and bound with heavy irons. 
But when I say "I love you", even yet 
don't make me add "I will", by error or with bias. 

"I will" has got a bitter connotation, 
for it implies a counterfeit, decay - unpleasant, 
a loophole for retreating, anyhow, 
insipid poison and contamination, 
slap in the face, affront upon the present, 
a doubt that I really love you now. 

I dream my dream in French, 
it has a wide tense range, 
the future and the past are different from ours. 
I'm pilloried, disgraced and outraged, 
The language seems to set me at defiance. 

The language gap, oh my! 
I'm about to cry ! 
Yet we can work it out, we have our firm intentions. 
I love you at the times which will comply 
with Future, Past and Present Perfect tenses.

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Execution of mountain echo
Russian title: Gornoe eho

In a mountain pass where the rocks for the winds are no checkers (no checkers), 
where no one has ever set foot, so steep is the rise (so steep is the rise), 
there once lived a jubilant cheerful mountain echo, 
it answered the calls and responded to cries, human cries. 

When loneliness suddenly fills our heart with despair (despair) 
and when a low sound of pain down the cliff is about to land (about to land), 
adroitly, the echo will pick up the call and handling with care 
will then make it louder and with solicitude take it in hand. 

Some scoundrels, crazy and drunk, must have gotten around 
  (gotten around), 
in order that no one might hear the footfall and snort 
  (footfall and snort), 
intending to silence and murder the gorge, living canyon, they bound 
the echo and stopped up its mouth before it was shot. 

And so it went on, their bloody ferocious enraged merrymaking, 
no sound was heard as they trampled the echo, made fun of it, mocked... 
They shot in the morning the quietened mountain echo
  (mountain echo) 

and tears gushed out like stones from the wounds of a rock...
and tears gushed out like stones from the wounds of a rock... 
and tears gushed out like stones from the wounds of a rock...

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The icy world
Russian title: Gololed

Mother Earth is all covered with ice - 
all year long it is covered with ice. 
There's no spring, it appears, nor summer - 
White as snow is the planet's garment - 
now and then someone falls on the ice. 

Mother Earth is all covered with ice, 
all year long it is covered with ice. 
Everything is covered with ice, 
all year long it is covered with ice. 

You may fly all around the Globe 
and may not even touch the ground,- 
anyway you are sure to drop 
an a slippery plain or slope... 
To be crushed underfoot you are bound! 

Mother Earth is all covered with ice, 
all year long it is covered with ice. 
Everything is covered with ice, 
all year long it is covered with ice. 

There is nothing but ice, like glass, 
but it isn't a rink for skating. 
Perhaps a beast will quietly pass... 
All is iced ! A two-legged one has 
to land on all fours - no escaping. 

Mother Earth is all covered with ice, 
all year long it is covered with ice. 
Everything is covered with ice, 
all year long it is covered with ice.

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Apples from the garden of Eden
Russian title: Rajskie iabloki

I shall die 
for some day we all reach our last destination. 
And I'd rather be stabbed, 
than decease just like that in my bed. 
People pity the killed, pay them tribute 
and promise salvation... 
I'm not sure of the living, 
however, we cherish the dead. 

I shall fall on my face, 
turn to one side and then to the other, 
and on stolen old horses 
my soul will then gallop ahead. 
In the magical Gardens of Eden 
some apples I'll gather... 
It's too bad that the gardens are guarded,- 
they shoot in the head. 

When we got to the place 
what I saw there wasn't quite pleasant: 
just a wide open space, 
barren soil with no plants and no trees, 
and a huge iron gate 
towering over the boundless desert, 
and a crowd of convicts, 
thousands of them,- on their knees. 

Now the wheel-horse got very excited. 
I calmed him by calling him "darling", 
and removed all the prickles on him, 
and smoothed out his mane. 
In the mean time, a grey-haired man 
fumbled, humbling and grumbling, 
with the bolt, but, alas, 
his attempts were vain. 

And the worn out people 
did not even utter a sound. 
They just rose from their knees to sit up, 
they were at a loss... 
Den of thieves, mob of gangsters 
came out to welcome the crowd! 
All returned to it its source, 
and a man was up there on the cross.. 

Well, we all have some wishes, 
but was it so much that I wanted? 
All I need is my friends, 
and my wife,- to shed tears when I'm dead. 
I shall gather some rose-colour apples for them - 
good and sorted... 
It's too bad that the gardens are guarded, 
they shoot in the head. 

I could tell who the grey-haired man really was 
from his tears: 
it was Peter, the holy apostle, 
while I was a stupid blockhead. 
There they were, the gardens, 
with pink frozen apples. Oh, cheers!.. 
It's too bad that the gardens are guarded,- 
so I was shot dead. 

Then I urged on the horses, 
away from the horrible premises ! 
And I rushed,- I had oats for the horses 
and apples for you. 
Whip in hand, I was driving, like mad, 
on the brink of the precipice. 
You were waiting for me to return 
from the Paradise, too.

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The common graves
Russian title: Bratskie mogily

They don't put up crosses on communal graves, 
And widows don't come to shed tears; 
But flowers are laid and eternal flames 
Will never be quenched, it appears. 

The earth that was shaking and heaving of late 
With granite and marble is plated. 
There isn't a single separate fate, 
All fates are in one integrated. 

We see in the flame our burning tank, 
A house on fire and smoulder, 
The burning Smolensk and the burning Reichstag, 
The burning heart of a soldier. 

The tearful widows don't visit the place, 
To give and receive the blessing. 
They don't put up crosses on communal graves 
But does it make less distressing?

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* * *
Russian title: Skol'ko let, skol'ko let...

I need changes'cause for years 
there have not been many. 
There's no money, and no girls, 
and there can't be any. 

I have filched for many years, 
and have not been lazy,- 
should have saved a heavy purse, 
but I drank like crazy. 

I'm as poor as a mouse, 
haven't got a penny, 
got no friends and got no house, 
and I can't have any. 

I have filched for many years, 
and have not been lazy, 
should have saved a heavy purse, 
but I drank like crazy. 

Somehow, I still get along 
playing cards and drinking. 
All I ever did was wrong, 
not just the beginning...

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* * *
Russian title: Nu, o chem s toboiu govorit'?..

It's no use to talk to you. I think 
all you say is unintelligible chatter 
So I'd better go and have a drink 
and discuss with friends a serious matter. 

They have vital questions to decide, 
For example: "Who's a better drinker?" 
Their range of interests is wide - 
From a grocery to places selling liquor. 

We debate two quite important points, 
as we hold a heated conversation: 
one is how to get the missing coins 
and the other - who will fetch libation. 

You are giving me your brew instead of wine… 
Can I justify your twilight vision? 
Your intelligence doesn't equal mine 
You should polish up your erudition!

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He hasn't returned from the fighting
Russian title: On ne vernulsia iz boia

Why has everything changed? Life goes on as it should... 
There's the sky over us, blue as ever, 
As before there's the air, the water, the wood... 
But he's lost in the fighting for ever. 

I do not understand who was right, who was wrong 
In disputes that we had, rather biting. 
It was not until now that I started to long 
For the one who did not come from fighting. 

He'd be awkwardly silent, he'd sing out of tune, 
And his absence of mind was exciting, 
He would not let me sleep, sitting up by the moon... 
but last night he did not come from fighting. 

I'm destitute now, and I've just touched the ground, 
It occurred to me : I'd been beside him... 
And I felt as if I had my fire blown out 
when he didn't return from the fighting. 

Like a prisoner from jail, spring has broken away. 
By mistake I addressed him now, shouting : 
"Got a lighter, old man?" - but what could he say?- 
If last night he did not come from fighting. 

In the dugout we had room enough to get by, 
And for both of us time would be sliding... 
But now he is gone, and I think it was I 
Who did not come alive from the fighting.

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* * *
Russian title: Liricheskaia

The birds are alarmed here, boding no good, 
The fur-trees are all of a tremble. 
You live in a magical mystery wood, 
To leave it you are unable. 

Though the cherry-trees dry their linen in space 
And the lilac-trees bloom over here, 
I'll take you away to the Palace,- the place 
Where trumpets and pipes you will hear. 

The wizards have hidden your world from man 
For ages ahead, I imagine. 
You think that no other thing under the sun 
Is greater than this wood of magic. 

Though the dew drops at day-break do not leave the trace, 
Though the moon and the sky cause commotion, 
I shall take you away to the tower,- the place 
With a wonderful view of the ocean. 

So when will it happen? What time and what day 
I'll see you discreetly come out 
And in my arms I shall take you away 
To where you cannot be found? 

I'll kidnap you if only you give your consent, 
Just think of the pains I have taken! 
Now to love in a cottage you'll have to assent 
Once the Palace is no longer vacant.

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The informer
Russian title: V nash tesnyj krug ne kazhdyj popadal...

In our gang no strangers we would let. 
And so one day - God damn - I took my chances - 
I brought the man along with me and said 
"He's one of us, now let us charge the glasses". 

He kept us company and seemed to be content, 
We welcomed him like a good friend, or brother, 
However, he betrayed us in the end. 
It was my fault, do not blame any other. 

I don't recall the trial, what a plight! 
And then there was the barrack, cold as grave, and 
It seemed to me it was a pitch-black night, 
And it was not a dream, it was apparent. 

I will reserve myself and I'll revive; 
He thinks that he will never ever see me, 
He was too fast to bury me alive, 
He was mistaken, boys, believe me. 

The day will come, the night will not last long, 
I'll ask you when atonement is around: 
"It was my fault, I brought the man along, 
Give him to me, and I will have it out".

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* * *
Russian title: Zdravstvujte, nashi dobrye zriteli...

Both the pets and the wild beasts of prey 
Have human taste, smell and other senses, 
While humans have to prance and dance attendance, 
They are fated to act in that way. 

Today spectators, today spectators 
Do not want to see the charmers and the tamers! 
And if you want to tame a pet, or beast, 
You have to join the criminal police. 

Very few decent humans today 
Have human taste, smell and other senses, 
While beasts and animals must dance attendance, 
They are fated to act in that way. 

Today spectators, today spectators 
Do not want to see the charmers and the tamers! 
And if you want to tame a pet, or beast, 
Go join the circus - you will be pleased.

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* * *
Russian title: Vot glavnyj vhod...

There is the entrance but, you know, 
I have a habit - don't you hinder - 
Of coming in through a back-door 
And going out through a window. 

I don't want to upset anyone, 
I can be an unbearable man, 
I was on the booze yesterday 
And was badly struck with dismay. 

I spat upon the drunken ass, 
Wrapped up my face in curtain tissue 
And threw myself straight through the glass 
Into the arms of the militia. 

All in blood and humiliated, 
Outraged and infuriated, 
With a good reputation, 
I was brought to the station. 

And, going far over the line, 
They kicked me, walloped and belabored, 
And then they made me pay a fine 
And told me not to be so wayward. 

Poor creature, all bandaged, 
And unfairly damaged, 
I accepted the offer 
to sleep on the sofa. 

I woke up in the dead of night 
And felt my anger was abating, 
I walked up to the window but 
It had a heavy iron grating. 

Well, I had an experience 
In confronting a hindrance 
But those bars over there 
Made me filled me with despair. 

And when the morning came, you know, 
I got up shaking and put out, 
But I walked out. Through the door! 
And ever since I've been in doubt. 

Life is quiet and ethical, 
Very clean and symmetrical, 
I feel low I'm hurt easily, 
And I'm living in misery.

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The song of the white elephant
Russian title: Pesnia pro belogo slona

Somewhere in India since the ancient times 
There were wild grey elephants of tremendous size. 
They rambled in the jungle here and there at random, 
And somehow one of them was white among them. 

It was known for its wisdom, noble birth and breed, 
Had a friendly look and gentle spirit. 
Being white it was "a rare bird" indeed 
In the herd among its swarthy kindred. 

Once the Indian ruler - how could I expect?- 
Gave me the white elephant out of respect. 
"What do I need it for?- I asked him humbly, 
"It has a heart of gold," - he answered calmly. 

Then it made a curtsy and I made a bow, 
And the speech I made was soft, not vicious, 
Now I knew the elephant was actually a cow, 
Or, in other words, it was a female specious. 

Sitting on the elephant I really looked grand, 
I would roam around the Indian fairyland. 
We'd ramble here and there and everywhere, 
And every inconvenience we'd share. 

We would go and sing our serenades of love, 
Ladies would jump off their beds like crazy, 
I should say, the elephant was talented enough, 
And his music gift was just amazing. 

You have seen a world map or an atlas, haven't you? 
And you know in India there's a river, too. 
My elephant and I would feed on mangoes 
And somehow we were lost around the Ganges. 

I would dash around restlessly for days on end 
Having undermined my flesh and spirit. 
Later on they told me: "Your white elephant 
Had encountered a herd of its white kindred". 

I was angry and upset at first but then 
I received an elephant from India again: 
As an ornament of cane in all its finery: 
Nice white elephant but made of ivory. 

Having seven elephants at home is good, 
They allegedly protect us from misfortune. 
I would rather have them wonder in the wood, 
And I wish they wouldn't bring me fortune.

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* * *
Russian title: Mosty sgoreli, uglubilis' brody...

The fords are deep. The bridges have burnt down, 
And only skulls are visible. It's close. 
The ins and outs are blocked all around. 
There is one way to go,- it's where the crowd goes. 

Like harnessed horses fastened to a vehicle 
and as a vivid proof that our world is small, 
The crowd moves in an exclusive circle 
Without any bearings at all. 

Caught in the rain the pallet spreads about 
A gallops bursts into a polonaise, 
smells, flowers, tones and rhythms have faded out, 
And oxygen has vanished in the haze. 

No act of thoughtlessness nor inspiration 
Can stop this spinning movement,- never once. 
Is this the everlasting circulation 
And what we call' perpetual advance'?

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The stars
Russian title: Zvezdy

Shall I forget it, that fighting, oh my! 
Death overhung all around, 
Stars were falling like rain from the sky 
down on the ground. 

There is one falling… I'll live, in so far 
as I made a wish, willy-nilly... 
Now I have bound my life with a star, 
Isn't it silly? 

I thought the trouble had past and I had 
Managed somehow to escape it... 
Falling from heaven, a star hit my heart, 
So unexpected. 

We were ordered to capture the height, 
"Don't spare bullets!" - they told us... 
There's another one falling now right, 
Down on your shoulders. 

Plenty of starlets, both seen and unseen, 
There are to be had in the heaven. 
I'd be a hero now hadn't I been 
lost in the hell then. 

I'd give the star to my son, as a note, 
A keepsake and all... 
Stars in the sky go to waste for they've got 
Nowhere to fall.

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The one who didn't shoot
Russian title: Tot, kotoryj ne strelial

I'm not deceiving, really, 
It's true, upon my word! 
One morning I was nearly 
Shot by a firing squad. 
Why did this silly, saddening 
Misfortune come my way? 
I know it but that's something 
I'm not supposed to say. 

Commander almost saved my life 
But somebody insisted : "Execute!". 
The squad had worked it out well enough, 
But there was one who didn't want to shoot. 

Misfortune for some reason 
Had been attending me: 
I captured once a prisoner 
But somehow let him flee. 
The sneak, who was a sort of 
A fidget, a strange lot, 
Had made a mental note of 
that case, for his report. 

Then he disclosed it, and he brought along 
The filed material he had, the brute! 
No one could help it, the effect was strong... 
But there was one who didn't want to shoot. 

The hand fell in the abyss, 
And "Fire!" was the word, 
Thus I was given access 
To the unknown world. 
But then I heard a shout: 
"He is alive. How nice! 
Now call the doc. We cannot 
Execute him twice.". 

The doctor clicked his tongue and, with a sigh, 
Extracted all my bullets, pitching mood, 
Meanwhile I was delirious, and I 
Kept talking to the one who didn't shoot. 

I licked the wounds, and never 
Took treatment, it would seem; 
In hospitals, however, 
I was in high esteem, 
Beloved and well reputed 
By all the sisterhood : 
"Come, you, half-executed, 
A shot will do you good.". 

Our battalion fought on the Crimean shore, 
And I would send glucose there, when I could, 
To sweeten up the bitter pill of war 
For that same man, the one who didn't shoot. 

I had my tea and drowned 
In spirit now and then; 
So I did not break down 
And went to fight again. 
I joined my own unit. 
"Fight on,- the major said,- 
I'm glad they failed to do it, 
and you were not shot dead". 

I should have felt quite happy, but instead 
I howled like a wolf, in a terrific mood, 
Because a German sniper shot me dead 
By killing that same man who didn't shoot.

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I honor Dorian Gray and Faustus...
Russian title: Dve pros'by

I honor Dorian Gray and Faustus. However, 
I cannot sell my soul to Deuce - no way! 
Why did I listen to the gypsies ?- Well, I never! - 
They prophesied my death up to a day. 

Don't bear it in mind, put it away, 
Don't mark it in your calendar. On no account! 
Or, when it comes to that , just change the day, 
Lest I should wait for it and crows fly all around, 
Lest wining angels should be fluttering about 
And people sneer, setting up for wit. 
Before too long, please keep me safe, I bid! 
Now hurry up, and don't delay a bit 
For they have filled my heart with fear and doubt. 

And, truly, in return for immortality 
I don't want much: a road, a horse, a friend... 
I beg you, humbly bending down my head, 
The instant you release me in the end 
Don't cry for mercy and sentimentality!

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* * *
Russian title: I dusha, i golova, kazhis', bolit...

My heart aches, so does my head, I think 
Please believe me, I am not pretending. 
Help me out, and I'll give you anything. 
And I'll do my best as long as aid is pending. 

I will go where pine-trees grow and winds are blowing, 
It's more interesting there - it's just my ambition! 
I will give you cigarettes, and I'm going 
To present you with my singing in addition. 

Give me just a gulp of new fresh air 
Dare I grumble? Yes, I have a ground. 
Is it some perfume? The smell I just can't bear... 
I shall thank you, when I get around. 

I've got iron nerves, that are the worse for wear, 
I have lost the peace of mind for ever. 
Oh my nerves, my poor nerves, you're bare! 
If you came to life you'd be disabled. 

Bitter will be every word I'll say,- 
I have pursed my lips to curse and swear. 
To the thick wild forest I would run away 
Hide myself - and howl in despair!

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The ballad of the time
Russian title: Ballada o vremeni

Ancient castle, worn out by time, is now clad 
In a tender, green cover of sprouts, 
But the reticent granite will throw off the plaid 
To disclose the historical past it has had 
With its conquests, crusades, fights and bouts. 

Time has not wiped heroic deeds out. 
Just unveil what is hidden from view, 
Take the time by the throat and, no doubt, 
It will open its secrets to you. 

Heaps of fetters and locks will fall out like one, 
And the numerous ages will seat to the bone, 
And from hundreds of poems old legends will flood, 
Tales of tournaments, archers, and sieges and blood. 

Be prepared to listen to tunes you've heard of, 
Look attentively, with comprehension, 
After all, love is love and will always be love, 
Even there, at your destination. 

Steel would crack with a clank, at the slash of the sword, 
And the bow-string would fume under tension, 
Death would settle on spears, and groan, sitting squat, 
Foes, appealing for quarter, would fall on the spot, 
And surrender themselves at discretion. 

Anyhow, not all of survivals 
Have retained their kindness of hearts, 
Though they've saved their good names from rivals 
And from downright lies of the rats. 

It is good if the horse dashes off all at once, 
And the fighter has got a good grip of the lance; 
It is good if he knows how the arrow may fly, 
And it's bad if it comes from the back, on the sly. 

What about the rogues ? Do you fight them ? OK. 
Do the witches inspire you with horror ? 
Don't you think, what is known as evil to-day 
Will be known as evil tomorrow 

'cause for ages it's been an unwritten law 
That the cowards and traitors are battered, 
That a foe is a foe and a war is a war, 
That the cell is too dark, and freedom's last straw, 
And we always hope for the latter. 

Time has not washed away all these notions. 
Just remove the top layer of mud, 
And a flood of eternal emotions 
Will gush out upon us like blood. 

Nowadays it's acknowledge as ever, old man, 
That the price is a price, and that wine will be wine; 
And it's good if you've saved your good name from offense 
And you have a reliable backing from friends. 

Plainness, purity come from the ancients to us, 
From the past we take fables and legends 
For the good will be always the good : in the past, 
And in future, as well as at present.

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* * *
Russian title: O nashej vstreche

We were to meet. I waited for the day. 
It felt like waiting for a terrible disaster, 
But we began to live together right away, 
Without fearing what might come after. 

I got you out of gutter, dressed you, and 
I cut the number of your doubtful connections, 
You had a trail behind, without end, 
A long-long trail of casual relations. 

I battered, I recall, your so called friends, 
I don't know why, but I just didn't like them, 
Although there might have been, I sense, 
Nice fellows, genuine friends, among them. 

I'd do whatever you would ask me to. 
I wanted every hour to be night of wedding. 
One day I nearly killed myself for you, 
but my attempt, thank God, was unavailing. 

And if you'd waited for me on the year 
When I was driven to the "country-house", 
I would have stolen skies for you, my dear, 
and in addition stars from Kremlin towers. 

I'll give you anything, or I'll be damned! 
Don't drink, don't lie, and I'll forgive you, sinner! 
I'll give you Opera and Ballet and 
The smaller building of the Sports Arena. 

I'm not inclined to meet you now, my dove, 
I'm scared of our act of love occurring, 
The way the Japanese are scared of 
the horror of Hiroshima recurring.

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In my soul
Russian title: Mne kazhdyj vecher zazhigaiut svechi

They light up candles for me every evening, 
Your fumigated image, is so sweet. 
But I don't want to know that time is healing 
And everything must pass along with it. 

I'll never know the loss of peace and quiet 
For all I had, stored in my soul, for a whole year, 
She took along with her when setting out 
First for the voyage, then for the trip by air. 

I have a desert in my soul, all bare. 
Why should you stand like that over my empty soul, all day? 
I've got song snatches and a web in there, 
And nothing more,- she's taken all away. 

My soul has roads without destinations, 
Just search it, and you'll find for once 
Some phrases and unfinished conversations, 
The rest is taken up by Paris, France. 

They light up candles for me every evening, 
Your fumigated image, is so sweet. 
But I don't want to know that time is healing, 
It doesn't heal but lacerates my feeling 
For everything must pass along with it.

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I have two selves in me
Russian title: I vkusy, i zaprosy moi stranny...

I am an exotic man, to put it mildly, 
My tastes and my demands are rather strange, 
I can, for instance, nibble glasses madly, 
And read the works of Schiller for a change. 

I have two "Selves" in me, two poles of planet, 
Two absolutely different men, two foes, 
When one is eager to attend a ballet 
The other straight off to the races goes. 

I don't take liberties, when I turn out 
To be myself, going the whole hog, 
My other "Self" will frequently break out 
Appearing as a rascal and a rogue. 

And I oppress the scoundrel's intrusion, 
My life! I've never known such distress... 
Perchance (I am so scared of confusion), 
I'm not that other "Self" whom I oppress. 

When in my soul I open up the facets 
In spots where sincerity should be 
I pay the waitresses, on trust, in assets, 
And women give me their love for free. 

But suddenly all my ideals go to grass, as 
I'm impatient, angry, rude and such a bore! 
I sit like mad, devouring the glasses, 
And throwing Schiller down on the floor. 

The hearing is on. I stand and speak austerely, 
Appealing to the jury, showing tact: 
"It wasn't me who'd smashed the window, really, 
It was my other wicked "Self", in fact. 

Do not be strict to me. You'd better 
Give me a chance, but not a prison term. 
I'll visit court-rooms just as a spectator 
and drop in on the judges as a chum. 

I won't smash windows any more, distinctly, 
Nor fight in public - write it in your scroll ! 
I'll bring the halves of my split, sickly, 
Disintegrated soul into a single whole. 

I'll root it out, bury it and quench it; 
I want to clear and reveal my soul. 
My other "Self" is alien to my nature, 
No, it is not my other "Self", at all.

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* * *
Russian title: Prolozhite, prolozhite

Make a bridge on the occasion, 
Or a tunnel through the brine,- 
Come without hesitation 
To my shish-kebab and wine. 

Put in tune the old guitar which 
You'll be coming to me with; 
Cheer up, screw up your courage, 
Don't forget to hide your teeth. 

When you get to the idea 
That all roads will lead to Rome 
Then you will be welcome here, 
Come, we'll have a chat at home. 

Hide your horns and draw your claws in, 
Get unrigged, and don't be grim. 
Make at least a little crossing,- 
Throw a pole across the stream. 

You had better set about 
Mowing, sowing right away. 
If you miss the boat, look out,- 
You will rue the hapless day. 

In the morning you will stare 
Wond'ring, as you wake up: who 
Laid the bridges here and there, 
Without even telling you. 

Make at least a river crossing, 
Or a tunnel, underneath; 
Don't forget to draw your claws in 
And to hide your sharpened teeth!

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The silly dream
Russian title: Durackij son, kak kistenem...

The silly dream had beaten me 
With a big truncheon, 
And in that dream, as I could see, 
I wasn't catching. 
For in my sleep I told a lie, 
Betrayed and dreaded... 
I really didn't know that I 
Was so degraded. 

I also saw me clench my fist 
And then hit out. 
It was a kind of twist of wrist, 
Unstrained, soft clout. 
All of a sudden, from the dream 
I would arouse, 
But then my eyes would grow so dim, 
And I would drowse. 

I didn't walk, but dragged my feet 
Along the paling. 
I only tried to step on it 
In fear and trembling. 
I fawned like crazy on the strong, 
Stooped to the wayward. 
I knew that all I did was wrong 
but wasn't wakened. 

It's rubbish! Half asleep, I heard 
My own murmurs, 
And it was I, in fact, who had - 
That dream. Not others. 
When I came round I discerned 
My murmur's meaning. 
I blinked my eyes, and though it hurt 
It was relieving. 

My vision hovering above 
Crawled on the ceiling. 
Prophetic dream? So here I have 
The question sneering. 
It gave me shivers for I had 
To take decision: 
What was a lie and what was right 
About my vision. 

For if a dream is just a dream 
I should be joyous. 
But what if it's the vicious scheme 
Of clairvoyance? 
Are dreams what our days reflect? 
Oh no, I doubt it! 
But when I come to recollect 
I get dumbfounded. 

And when I hear: "Burn!" I seem 
To have no spirit. 
I'll be ashamed like in the dream 
Where I was timid. 
Or if they say: "Sing on the beam. 
Be energetic!..." 
And I will know that it's a dream 
Which is prophetic.

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* * *
Russian title: Menia opiat' udarilo v oznob...

I'm feeling shivery again. My heart 
Is rumbling like a boulder in a barrel: 
A vicious rogue is living in my blood, 
With horny, hairy hands of a big scoundrel. 

When, noticing my anguish, people say 
Reproachfully: "He'll take to drinking," 
I cannot get along with him. No way. 
He breathes, in my stead, while I am shrinking. 

He's not my double nor another me,- 
No use to give a stupid explanation. 
He is my flesh and blood. How can it be? 
It is beyond all imagination. 

He's waiting till I finish up my twine, 
When he can use my hand to write the summery, 
And I become a prudent, ruthless swine 
Betraying everybody, all and sundry. 

I do not want to look for an excuse, 
My life may fade, go past, dissolve or harden; 
But I will not excuse myself when, cutting loose, 
He gets a hold on me, all of a sudden. 

But I will summon all my power and strength, 
This time he won't elude and dodge it: 
I'll swallow poison, let him gorge it 
And turn to dust,- I've cheated him at length!

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What the hell, you viper...
Russian title: CHto zhe ty, zaraza...

Tell me, why you, viper, have your eye-brows pencilled, 
And what the hell you've put on your blue beret for. 
You are going out for a dance, I sense it, 
You have got two tickets to the club, I know. 

You should have no doubt that I dote upon you, 
I can do the stealing for you night and day, 
But you are unfaithful, and I want to warn you, 
I will put you down if you go astray. 

I have no objections if it's Nick or Slavka, 
I don't mind you going out with my friends, 
But if it is Victor from Pereyaslavka 
I shall crush you, stinker, tear you to threads! 

Listen to me, hussy, I'll be frank and solid: 
You had better get that beret off your head; 
If you don't, I'll have you buried in my soul, and 
You will not be found,- coated with cement. 

When you come back, maybe, later in the summer, 
I'll have found a woman,- a real bit of jam, 
Then you'll burst with envy, like a dirty bummer, 
Saying: "Please forgive me", but I won't give a damn.

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I am on the job
Russian title: IA v dele

I am on the job, I've got a knife, 
Don't hurt me, or you'll lose your life. 
And then I go to have a drink. 
No matter what the rumors say, 
What I have earned I drink away. 
I'll always act that way, I think. 

A man comes up to me and says: 
"Life isn't easy nowadays, 
And men like you I want to kill". 
But I have outdone the boy, 
I do not talk, but I destroy, 
I kill my foes and always will. 

And if you care for a chat, 
Let's have a drink, sit down, lad. 
We'll work it out anyway. 
But if you are like that young ass, 
There is one law for all of us, 
And it will always be that way.

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The song of the criminal code
Russian title: Nam ni k chemu siuzhety i intrigi...

We don't need novels, stories and inventions. 
We keep ourselves enlightened all the time. 
The best of books to me is the collection 
Of laws that deal with punishment and crime. 

And if I cannot sleep, alarmed and saddened, 
Or if, after a spree, I get a head, 
I open Code of Laws at any page, at random, 
And read it carefully, from A to Z. 

I haven't given tips to my companions, 
Their cognizance of robbery is firm. 
I have just read about it in the manual: 
From three up to ten years of prison term. 

Just think about these lines, they are quite simple 
But more expressive than all novels of the world. 
Behind them there are barracks, wretched people, 
Cards, fights and scandals, cheating, and harsh word. 

I wish I wouldn't read these lines of drear. 
I see a person's life behind each phrase. 
It's nice when articles are not severe : 
Somebody may be lucky in that case. 

My heart jumps moaning like a wounded pigeon 
When I read articles concerning me. 
Blood hammers in my temples,- I envision: 
It's cops who hammer at my door, I see.

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My own island
Russian title: Svoj ostrov

We are setting out for good 
To warm lands. 
Years on end we'll be en route 
Off the strands. 
You may put the wheels of fate 
In the way, 
But the storms we shall evade 
Anyway. 

Climb the mast and do it fast, my friend, 
Land for us is now 
vital: 
Maybe, you will see a continent, 
Or an island, for that 
matter. 

Someone wished so much to weigh 
Pros and cons, 
So he is now on his way 
To repose. 
All the others, stony broke, 
Do their best, 
They would rather go to work, 
Than to rest. 

You have turned, your fortune to a nun 
Laugh at her, and be 
silent, 
Some have continents and some have none, 
Some have their own 
island. 

They have boded me no good, 
Cards at hand, 
They foretold me that I would 
Find my land. 
But the sorcerer was wrong, 
Cards tell lies, 
I would like to search and long 
For new isles. 

There's the shore in view in full extent 
Take your time and look 
round. 
What is that? Is that the continent? 
Or is it just my 
Island?

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* * *
Russian title: Vot i razoshlis' puti-dorogi...

Suddenly our trodden ways must part, 
One takes the eastern road, one the southern. 
It makes me sad to see my friends depart, 
It's sudden, so sudden. 

He's gone, and many people, really, 
Don't care a pence. 
I don't judge others but I most sincerely 
Believe in friends! 

I am left unlucky, on my own. 
Storms sweep off human souls and traces. 
I'm feeling bad, my friend, 
no use to moan... 
No friend, no complacence... 

He's gone, and many people, really, 
Don't care a pence. 
I don't judge others but I most sincerely 
Believe in friends! 

When some day my friend comes back and says: 
"We both were wrong. Forget the bygones..." 
We'll recollect the past time days 
And smile in silence. 

He's gone, and many people, really, 
Don't care a pence. 
I don't judge others but I most sincerely 
Believe in friends!

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The ballad of a bath-house
Russian title: Blagodat' ili blagosloven'e...

Send Thy blessing and absolution 
To obedient servants of Thine! 
God, permit us to do the ablution 
By immersing in Sanctum of Shrine! 

Let the vivifying lustration 
Heal us sinners from wounds and filth 
It's a kind of a bog reclamation, 
Or, should I say, a rebirth. 

All the sins, flaws, disputes, troubles, doubts, 
Boredom, apathy, rows and so on 
Like a shot from a gun are squeezed out 
By the steam which has just been put on. 

All that torments you will disappear 
And ascend to the sky, like on wings, 
Whereas you must descend, clean and pure, 
For the steam will have done with the sins. 
Take your time with the shower, don't hurry, 
Washing doesn't mean cleaning at all 
You should birch, lash and wallop your body 
Steaming out all smells from your soul. 

No one's "naked", so leave your ambition, 
No one cares if don't look good, 
It's like Garden of Eden: admission 
Will be granted if you're in the nude. 

When you take off you clothes you had better 
Dressing manners and habits forget! 
You'll be birched and walloped, no matter 
How you try to preserve self-respect. 

All are equal, and nothing is hidden, 
All endure the heat, in good trim, 
And equality, brotherhood, freedom 
You can feel in the devilish steam. 

Drive the new generation to sauna! 
Let the young take the rite of baptism! 
Pour your sacrament water upon us, 
Purify us from barbarism!

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If you are in a strange land at night
Russian title: Esli gde-to v chuzhoj neznakomoj nochi...

If you've found yourself in a strange land at night, 
If you sit on a barrel of powder, 
Don't hold back, don't keep silent but cry with all might, 
I shall hear your voice, shout louder. 

Perhaps, you lie in a ryefield, a bullet in chest, 
I am running to you - treading lightly, with ease, just have patience. 
We'll go back where the grass and the air are healing and gracious, 
Wait, do not pass away, just hold on, do your best. 

If you're riding a horse, you get home, spreading wings, 
Your good dun ought to bring you around. 
It will take you to places with life-giving springs 
Will patch up all your wounds, make you sound. 


Now, where are you? Locked up? Do you ramble and roam? 
What conjunctions, and what intersections of roads are you facing?! 
Are you tired, have gone off the track, do you find it depressing? 
Can't you really find the way back to your home ? 

Spurting out from snow, oh so clean are the springs! 
Splendid brooks of the purest water. 
All the flowers and plants are nobody's things 
We can have them, in fact, if we want to. 

If you're dragging your feet, plodding, trudging all day, 
Getting stuck in the mud, scrambling, treading on stones and on water, 
Singed in flame, weather-beaten, worn out, on foot or on trotter, 
Walk, or crouch, or crawl but get home anyway.

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My sorrow won't fade
Russian title: Svoi obidy kazhdyj chelovek...

A human being will forget his woe, 
As time goes by it tends to vanish 
But my trouble, like eternal snow, 
Won't languish, won't languish. 

It won't melt in sultry weather 
On summer midday, 
I know that from my worries I will never 
Ever get away.

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* * *
Russian title: Gornaia liricheskaia

Well, now, my hands don't shake at all 
So I'll move on! 
Into the precipice for all 
My fears are gone! 

I have no reason for a halt 
Nor for a break, 
There are no heights in the whole world 
I cannot take! 

Of all untrodden paths and roads 
One road is mine, 
Of all unconquered lines and fords 
I'll take one line! 

The names of those who rest in peace 
Are in the snow. 
Of all untrodden roads one is 
For me, I know! 

The bright blue radiance of ice 
Lights up the cracks; 
And on the granite, in disguise, 
Are someone's tracks.



I have my dream and let it flow 
Around the world, 
And I believe in pure snow 
And pure word!

Time flies. There's something I will not 
Forget about: 
It's here that confidence I got 
And killed my doubt! 

The water whispered on that day: 
"Good luck! No woes!" 
The day... What was it? Wednesday, eh? 
Oh yes, it was!

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Up to the mountain height
Russian title: K vershine

You are on the edge of icy steep 
Staring at the mountain heights intently. 
While the mountains seem to be asleep 
Breathing now with violence now gently. 

But they keep an eye on you as though 
You'd been granted safety and protection, 
They are sending cracks and slips of snow 
As a sign of warning and prevention. 

For the mountains know that this is hell, 
Smoke has filled the passes with commotion... 
You were young then, and you couldn't tell 
Roaring snow-slide from a bomb explosion. 

If you cried for help, the mountains would bring 
Your appeals back to the cliffs and dingles, 
Which would spread about the ravine 
Blowing in the wind like radar signals. 

When you fought for passes, shedding blood, 
Chain of mountains would be your loyal helper, 
Every stone would be your body-guard, 
And the rocks would offer you a shelter. 

It's a lie that wise men never go 
Up the hill if they can walk around. 
You were welcomed by the granite, ice and snow 
And the fog would spread low on the ground. 

Should you get your everlasting in the snow, 
Mountain ridges, like your near and dear, 
Will bend over you. They'll be, I know, 
Your unbreakable memorial here.

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I'll answer all your questions
Russian title: IA vse voprosy osveshchu spolna...

I'll answer all your questions through and through, 
You are so curious,- I'll give you satisfaction. 
I'm married, and my wife is French, it's true, 
By origin, however, she is Russian. 

Do I have lovers now? Oh no! 
Shall I have any? I have no intention. 
I gave up drinking two or so years ago. 
Will I start drinking? It's an open question. 

I do not live near the "Sokol" station 
And haven't penetrated Paris yet... 
Come on, don't try to make insinuations. 
Don't be allusive, ask me straight! 

I'll answer all your questions, and I'll be 
Quite frank, as if I were to make confession. 
I've made your mouths water as I see, 
And I expect now a confusing question. 

"You've not been faithful to your wife, have you?" - 
Embarrassingly asked me a reporter, 
As if he'd been behind the curtain, too, 
Or lain under the bed with a recorder. 

I do not live near the "Sokol" station 
And haven't penetrated Paris yet... 
Come on, don't try to make insinuations. 
Don't be allusive, ask me straight! 

Now I'm coming to the most important thing: 
A modest man, who tried to keep his balance, 
Inquired: "What did you actually mean 
By saying what you said in songs and ballads?" 

The answer was: "I'm not an Aesop nor 
Do I have anything up my sleeve 
I meant what I had written,- nothing more. 
Look at my sleeve. You see ? I don't deceive". 

I do not live near the "Sokol" station 
And haven't penetrated Paris yet... 
Come on, don't try to make insinuations. 
Don't be allusive, ask me straight!

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The masks
Russian title: Maski

Somebody must have played a trick on me, 
I'm laughing, for it's like distorting mirrors,- 
Big noses, clown's grins,- it seems to be 
A fancy-ball, or carnival in Venice. 

A dancing crowd has encircled me, 
They push me urging me to take my chances. 
My ordinary face, as I can see, 
Was taken for a mask by the rejoicing dancers. 

Confetti, fireworks… But all I do is vain, 
They look at me reproachfully, with sadness, 
The say that I am out of time again, 
That I keep stepping on the shoes of partners. 

What shall I do? Shall I just run away? 
Or had I better go on making merry? 
I hope beneath the masks of beasts of prey 
Some have a human face and normal bearing. 

They all are masked and "wigged",- each is akin 
To fairy tale or literary figure 
Here is a hangman, there's a gloomy harlequin, 
And every third one is a stupid piggy. 

I join the dancers, laughing, yet I feel, 
Uneasy and disturbed: it may so happen,- 
Someone may like his hangman's mask and will 
Refuse to take it off and be quite happy. 
What if the gloomy looking harlequin 
Should really be disheartened and cast down? 
What if the fool should wear his stupid grin 
Upon his normal face, without a frown? 
I wish I could discern a really good face 
And tell an honest man from a dishonest ... 
To save their faces from a break-up and disgrace 
They put on masks and wear them in earnest. 

I know what masks are for, and I expect 
I'm right in guessing the ingenious riddle : 
The masks that people wear will protect 
Their faces from a slap and spittle.

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The letter
Russian title: Svoj pervyj srok ia vyderzhat' ne smog...

I couldn't bear my first term in the camp, 
So they will add a year or two (Don't argue with them! 
Please write me, dear fellows, if you can: 
"How goes it there in the world of freedom?" 

What do you drink ? We don't drink anything, 
All we have got is snow in sunny weather. 
Please write to me about everything, 
It's boring here, and I need your letter. 

I miss you all, and it's been years on end, 
I'd like to see your dear smiling faces, 
How is my sweetheart? Has she got a friend? 
No? Tell her she must write me a few phrases. 

It is as dreadful as the Trial of Ordeal. 
Your letter is a thread which mustn't fail us. 
They will not forward it to me, I feel, 
But write me anyway, my dear fellows.

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* * *
Russian title: Kogda ia spotykaius' na stihah...

When by the rhymes and poems I get bored, 
When of a written line I can't make any sense 
I desperately squeeze the finger-board 
And sing about sailors to my friends. 

In spite of all the cares that there may be, 
And though I've got so many things to do on land 
Sailors, take me with you, out to the sea 
On board the ship I'll be a helping hand. 

All kinds of creatures swim about the sea, 
And none of them impedes you in the way, 
Whereas on land each passerby you see 
Will push you, step on you and run away. 

The world is not held up by whales or boats, 
You know it's not for company of three. 
You can't take liberties in alien ports; 
But I don't do it in my own, nor at sea. 

In spite of all my cares that here at home may be, 
Regardless of the things I have to do on land; 
Take me to the sea, send out a boat for me, 
On board the ship I'll be a helping hand.

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In the beginning there was a Word
Russian title: Snachala bylo Slovo...

There was a word of sorrow, 
a word of grief at first, 
The world was in the throes of its creation, 
Huge fragments of the land flew off 
to God knows were from burst 
Converting into islands in succession. 

And wandering about, 
unloaded, with no banners, 
Through centuries and ages 
and millions of long years, 
A hermit and a roamer, 
the island changed its manners 
But had preserved the soul and 
the nature of the earth. 

There was a word of sorrow 
but then there came a hush. 
The Earth was now inhabited by sailors. 
Towards the islands up the steps 
they made a frenzied dash 
And called the islands "ships",- 
(they liked the alias). 

The shore is keeping hold of 
the islands near its border; 
So one day or another 
they'll come back to the strand. 
The islanders have set up 
their special, naval, order 
Regarding their law and 
the honor of the land. 

Will scientists forgive us 
for parallels we draw, 
For tackling theories too freely, rather? 
They say there was a word in the beginning. Well, if so 
It certainly was "sea" - not any other.

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* * *
Russian title: Mne sud'ba do poslednej cherty...

I am fated to argue to very last day, 
Till I yell myself hoarse, till I'm wasted away; 
I am fated to prove, going out of my way, 
That this isn't quite right and that's gone astray, 
That Christ was belied by unproved hearsay, 
That the tombstone has not yet converted to clay, 
And life under Tartars was driven to bay, 
Three hard ages of misery, plight and dismay, 
Good intentions, rebellions, entreaties to slay, 
Devastation and robbery day after day, 
They may not understand right away what I say, 
I will say it again, like a fool, come what may... 
Though it's not to the point and not urgent to-day: 
"All the vanities are void and vain anyway". 

I am sorry, I can't drain the cup on the run, 
I could share it with all, still it cannot be done. 
Shall I throw it in the face of my foe, wicked man? 
No, I cannot just do it, I wonder who can. 
Onto spinning smooth slippery ring I am thrown, 
I'm keeping my balance and holding my own. 
Shall I throw off my burden? It cannot be done. 
I would rather be patient and wait for someone, 
I will hand it to him and withdraw from the run. 
On a dark pitch-black night to the wide open lawn, 
Having given the cup to my friend,- I'll be gone. 
Will he drain it or not?- that will never be known. 
I am now in the meadow amongst the withdrawn, 
But about the cup I won't tell anyone, 
I had better keep mum for if I make it known 
I presume, I'll be trampled upon on the lawn. 

I am doing my best for your sake, as you see, 
Maybe, some of you will put a candle for me, 
For my nerves that squeeze out a shout from me, 
For the manner in which I make fun of all thee. 
If they promise me wonders and gardens for free, 
If they threaten with darkness - I shall not agree! 
If I slacken my nerves I shall sing out of key, 
I would rather get strained to the proper degree! 
I had better carouse and go on a spree! 
I shall crush what I've done and what's laid up for me! 
I would rather root out my best song than be 
Whirling round and sliding like dust over me.. 

If I does come to draining the cup one fine day, 
If the lyric and melody sound O.K., 
If I manage to get them to see it my way,- 
Saying: "All is not vanity" I'll go away!

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