Vladimir Vysotsky. The Hill.

The Alarm Bell.

Listen, a bell tolls somewhere:
It says of a high day

Or, perhaps, a misfortune has arrived.

Muffling up the lyre,
It sounds far and wide now,

Has the ringer gone out of his mind?

No, the ringer isn’t sick,
From the belfry, hears he

How, with firm step, Fate persistently walks.

’Stead of the fine townships,
There are dust and ashes,

The jackboots trample on the standing crops.

There are no green forests
Warmed the Globe in old days,

Now the fire warms our Mother Earth!

There’ll be, when all’s burned down,
Nothing in a circle,

And again from nothing we’ll go forth.

Don’t think it’s a slumber,
It goes on around us—

The black smoke and smell of the decay.

From above, the ringer
Sees the picture clearly—

’Cause of horror, he’s turned fully gray.


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