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Vladimir Vysotsky

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Song about the stars

I shall never forget that battle -
The air is impregnated with death,
And over the horizon in the noiseless rain
Fell stars.
Another fell - and I lookded ahead:
To move alive out of the battle, -
Thus my life is tied in a hurry
To the silly stars.
I already decided: The misfortune has passed
And I managed to wriggle out, -
Out of the sky fell down a stray star -
Directly in the heart.
We were told: 'The height is needed!'
And 'Don't spare cartridges!' ...
There started rolling a second star -
To them upon the shoulder straps.
The stars are in the sky - like fish in a pond
Enough for all with gain.
If I were not dead, I should walk at that time
Also - a Hero.
I would give the Star to the son,
Simply - as a memory ...
On the sky hangs a lost star
Nowhere to fall.

Song about a loony bin

I said to myself: Stop writing, -
but the hands begged.
Oh, mummy my home, beloved friends!
I lie in the ward - they squint,
I don't sleep: I am afraid they'd throw themselves upon me, -
However beside me are quiet loonies, incurables.
There are different loonies -
not violent, but dirty, -
They are treated, starved, beat up by the hospital orderlies.
And what is astonishing here:
all go without straitjackets,
And then, what is brought to me, all the loonies gobble up.
Where is Dostoyevsky
with the famous 'Memoirs', -
If the deceased could see, how they beat on the doors with their foreheads!
And could tell Gogol
about our wretched life, -
By-god, Gogol would not believe us.
That is torment, - spit on them! -
they are sons of bitches, violent loonies:
All aim to lick me up, - by-god, I've no stength!
Yesterday in the ward number seven
One went off his head for good -
shouted: 'Give me America!' and beat the hospital orderlies.
I don't wish for fame and
until I'm not of absolute health -
Reason not yet faded, but that is ahead, -
There is the headphysician - a woman -
if quiet, but insane,-
I say: '! get out off my mind' - she to me, 'Wait!'
I wait, but feel - already
I go on the knife's blade:
I forgot the alphabet, of the cases I only remember two
And I ask my friends,
That who were like I and not be me,
Get him to fetch me out of here!

Song about a real insider

The ball hid in the close-clipped grass.
One second interval in the field and in the ether ...
They play according to the system 'double-w', -
But I spit on it, - with us it is 'Four-two-four'.
Oh Insider! For him - what is football, what is ballet,
He always plays the right wing, -
There is no fairness in the world and on the field -
That is why I always play on the left.
Now the insider scored a goal, receiving an exact pass.
I wish that he'd met me on the way, -
I cannot. My trainer placed me as reserve,
But he got on as if he'd break the feet.
It doesn't matter! I wait a little,
And though I don't get a flat from the team -
I'll catch with him up today, I'll catch up, -
I may not win the world football championship.
It doesn't matter! After the match I wait for him -
And then we have a little talk without a judge, -
I'll make a mess, I feel it in my heart - I'll hit
From the reserve bench the bench before the court.
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About fateful data and numbers

For poets and so on, but mainly - for poets
Who ended life tragic - he is a true poet,
And if at the exact time - then in full measure.
At the number 26 one took a step towards the pistol,
And then however - climbed to the loop in 'Angleterre'.
And with thirty-three Jesus Christ ... (He was a poet, he spoke:
'You are not to kill!' - everywhere I'll find you, he said.)
But they bashed nails into his hands, to that he could not create,
So that he neither wrote, nor thought about it.
I am at the number 37, in a moment I'll fall off drink.
There and at once like a cold shuddering:
Under this number Pushkin made a mess of himself in a duel
And Mayakovsky shot himself in the temple.
Let's stay at the number 37. Treacherous god -
Put a question point- blank: Either - or.
On this line we lost Byron and Rimbaud,
And the present-day they have somehow slipped through.
The duel didn't take place or was postponed,
And at thirty three they were crucified, but not powerfully.
And with thirty-seven - no blood, what is blood and turning grey
It doesn't mar too much.
Too weak to shoot oneself? My heart sank to my boots?
Patience, psychopates and hysterical women!
The poets walk on the razor's edge
An cut to the blood your bare souls.
On the word 'dlinosheee'* pin on three 'e' at the end.
The poets shorten - the decision is clear.
And the knife after him - but he hangs fortunately on the cutter
Slaughtered because he was dangerous.
I pity you, follower of a fateful date and number!
You pine like a concubine in a harem:
Expectation of life has risen and maybe the end
Of the poets put back in time!
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"From below ice and above - I leap between ..."

From below ice and above - I leap between, -
Make a hole above or drill below?
Of course - rise to the surface and not lose hope,
And there - to the matter of expectation a visa!
Ice above me, cracks and bangs!
I am bathed in sweat, like a ploughman ploughing.
I returned to you like a ship out of a song,
Remember everything, even old poems.
I am less than half a century - forty and more, -
I live because of you and the Lord's grace.
I have something to sing, standing in front of the Almighty,
I have something to justify before him.

Bolshoi Karetny

Where are your seventeen years?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
Where are your seventeen calamities?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
Where is your black pistol?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
And where are you today not?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
Do you remember, comrade, this house?
No, you don't forget about it.
I say, that one has lost halve his life,
Who hasn't been in the Bolshoi Karetny.
However, of course.
Where are your seventeen years?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
Where are your seventeen calamities?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
Where is your black pistol?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
And where are you today not?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
It is renamed now,
There is all new, believe it or not.
And all the same where you haven't been, where you don't walk
No, no, again you walk the Karetny along,
However, of couse.
Where are your seventeen years?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
Where are your seventeen calamities?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
Where is your black pistol?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
And where are you today not?
In the Bolshoi Karetny.
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Song about the hospital

I lived with mother and father
On the Arbat - if it were always so.
And now I am in a hospital
In the bed, all in bandages.
What is for us glory, what is for us Klava -
The nurse and bright light?
My neighbour on the right died,
The one, who is on the left - not yet.
And once - like carbon monoxide fumes -
That neighbour, who is on the left,
Told me suddenly: - Now listen, buddy,
You have a leg less.
How come! That's not true brother!
He, probably, joked?
- We only cut off toes, -
So the doctor told me.
But the neighbour, who is on the left,
Smiled all the time, joked all the time.
Even if nightly he was delirious -
He spoke about the leg.
Mockingly he said: You will not get up!
You won't see, he said, your wife!
If you only could, comrade,
See yourself from the side.
If I were not a cripple
And could get down from the bed,
I'd the one, who is to the left,
Simply bite through the throat!
I implored nursie Klava
To show me what happened to me.
If the neighbour, who was on the left, were alive, -
He would tell me the truth ...

The hill

They seized hold of the hill, like something of their own.
Firing of mortars, heavy fire ...
And we all climbed up on it in crowds,
Like to a buffet in a railway station.
And the cry 'hurrah' became torpid in the mouth,
As we swallowed the bullets.
Seven times we occupied this hill -
Seven time we left it.
And nobody wants the attack again,
The earth is like burnt kasha ...
At the eighth time we get it for good -
We get what's ours, our vital interests!
But one can go round the side ot it, -
And why do we cling to it?!
But all the ways of fate obviously
Cross at this hill.
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The icon hangs in the left corner at them -
Probably, they are milkdrinkers, -
Sacking lies on the floor at them,
Heels have trampled on it.
Beds and one table - that is with them the whole comfort, -
And two - former wine - barrels, -
As if I came upon an invalid refuge -
A passer-by in a starched shirt.
I was given wine - and from where is it!
For two rubles - two magnificent pitchers, -
And the grandfather - an invalid without teeth and legs -
Looked pleadingly to me back.
'I wish success!' - I said to him.
'There is no success for an old fogey!'
We drank with him, sat in the smoke, -
And he began at once, and began! ..
'And what, - he says, - have given me the authorities
For my teeth and for my legs!
And the grandfather - hellishly - get drunk to your heart's content -
And scrape ways with the stumps.
Oh, had I legs - I would manage better,
Could better tackle someone, that I am on the poverty line!
It's useless - the grandfather demanded, -
It's useless, it will come to nothing.!
'What's needed, grandfather' - I asked the old man.
'But needs are a trifle:
That - god be with them, with the ZK - but that at least the Cheka
Would be interested in my fate ...'

My bride will truly sob for me

My bride will truly sob for me,
My friends will pay my debts for me,
Others will sing all the songs for me,
And, perhaps, my enemies will toast to me.
I am not given interesting books to read,
And my guitar is without strings,
And I'm not allowed beyond and I'm not allowed below,
And for me there is no sun and no moon.
I am not allowd freedom: I have no right,
One is only to go from the door - to the wall,
I'm not allowed to the left, I'm not allowed to the right,
One is only allowed a piece of the sky, one is allowed to dream.
I am dreaming, how I come out, how my padlock is opened,
How my guitar is returned,
Who will be waiting there for me, how I shall be embraced,
And which songs will be sung for me.