Vladimir Vysotsky. The Hill.
The Alarm Bell.
Listen, a bell tolls somewhere:
Or, perhaps, a misfortune has arrived.
Muffling up the lyre,
Has the ringer gone out of his mind?
No, the ringer isn’t sick,
How, with firm step, Fate persistently walks.
’Stead of thorps and townships,
Soldiers’ boots trample on the standing crops.
There are no more forests
Now the fire warms our Mother Earth!
There’ll be, when all’s burned down,
And again from nothing we’ll go forth.
Don’t think it’s a slumber,
The black smoke and smell of the decay.
From above, the ringer
’Cause of horror, he’s turned fully gray.