Баллада о борьбе
Vladimir Semënovič Vysotskij / Владимир Семёнович Высоцкий| This version differs somewhat to the official version, which,... | |
| BALLAD ABOUT BATTLE | BALLAD OF FIGHTING |
| Amidst molten candles and sundown prayers Amidst war trophies and fires of peace Lived book children who knew no battles Anguishing their minor catastrophies | Alongside of night prayers by flickering candles, Among trophies of war and among peaceful camps, There lived bookish kids, unaware of battles, Giving way to despair out of trifling mishaps. |
| Children always complain of their age and their lot And we fought until slain And schemed mortal plots. And our clothes were patched By our mothers with haste We then swallowed books Getting drunk of the taste | Flocked in gangs, always vexed with the status in life, Not till scrapes but till deadly insults did we fight. Nonetheless, mothers patched up our garments on time, Whereas we swallowed books, getting drunk on the line. |
| Hair stuck to our sweaty foreheads Phrases sucking air right out from our guts And our heads spun by combat's fragrance From the yellowed pages descending on us. | Sweated forelocks adhered to our perspiring brows, Guts enjoyed sinking feeling from beautiful words, Our heads would wheel round from the smell of a row, Emanating from pages of old, yellowed scrolls. |
| And attempted to reach We who knew battles not With a war-calling screech Giving it all we got Secret orders were passed Borders suddenly sprang What it means to attack And war chariots clang | And, unversed in warfare, to conceive did we try, Still mistaking a howl for a bellicose cry, The conundrum of order, the use of confines, Fighting chariots clank and the gist of a fight. |
| In the boiling pots of past battles and wars So much food for our tiny brains To the roles of betrayers and cowards In our childish games were our enemies named | And in cauldrons of wars and distempers of yore, There’s a great deal of food for our hungry young brains. Roles of Judases, cowards, pretenders, informers We intended for foes in our childish war games, |
| Villian's footprints weren't even Allowed to cool And to beautiful women We promised amour Having calmed our friends worries And our families loved To the roles of the heroes We lead ourselves on | Whereas, quick in a chase on a villain’s warm trail, Pledging ardor in love for most beautiful dames, Showing care for our kin and appeasing our friends, Roles of positive heroes we meant for ourselves. |
| But we can't always run to the dreams in our heads Short the century for fun - mostly pain lives on Try to pry open the palms of the dead And receive a weapon from their strained arms | But, in a dreamland for keeps, you cannot stay away. Age of pranks is so short, and there’s pain all around. Do your best to unclench lifeless hands of the dead, Taking over his steel from fight-weary palms. |
| And distinuish, acquired A sword from the hearth Put on metal attire What's it worth? What's it worth? Find out - you a coward? Or one chosen by fate See a glimpse of your power Give real battles a taste. | Now assay, having wielded an as yet heated sword, Having put armors on, what is what, what is what; Put to test, if you’re a coward or a minion of fate, And find out on your own how a proper fight tastes. |
| And when near by falls your wounded friend And the world hears the howl coming from you And when you're left skinless - this isn't pretend Because they've killed him and not you | And as soon as a brother-in-arms, struck, falls by, And as soon as, deploring your first loss, you wail, And as soon as you feel as if skinned, by surprise, ‘Cause a friend of yours rather than you has been slain, |
| You will see, you will know, Find out from within From the grin that is shown That is deaths scowling grin Lies and Evil - look and find How their faces are harsh And always behind Ravens, tombstones and marsh. | You will know you have learnt, comprehended and sensed By the sneer of a visor, a fierce grin of death, Fraud and villainy – note how their faces are coarse And as usual coffins and crows afterwards. |
| If you cleared your way with your father's sword And your tears had dried leaving nothing but salt If in heat of the battle found out what's what Means your read useful books when you were only small. | If you haven’t picked meat off a blade, not a bite, If you’ve been watching haughtily, twiddling your thumbs, If, you haven’t engaged a vile boor in a fight, Then you’ve been neither here nor there in this life. |
| If the meat from a blade You did not eat a bite And your arms folded - stayed And looked down from a height Entered not into battle Against butcher and scythe Means that life proved your mettle You had nothing to give. | But if, cutting your way with an ancestor’s sword, You have taken good note of your tears’ bitter taste, If you’ve learnt, in a vehement fight, what is what, Then essential books, in your childhood, you read... |
