Vladimir Vysotsky. The Hill.
The Alarm Bell.
Or, perhaps, a misfortune has arrived.
Has the ringer gone out of his mind?
How, with firm step, Fate persistently walks.
Soldiers’ boots trample on the standing crops.
Now the fire warms our Mother Earth!
And again from nothing we’ll go forth.
The black smoke and smell of the decay.
’Cause of horror, he’s turned fully gray.