Vladimir Vysotsky. My Gypsy Song.

MAdapted from Sergey Roy, George Tokarev and
Ilya Yakubovich’s translations by Akbar Muhammad.
y Gypsy Song.

When I sleep, a yellow light

Blinds me and I’m groaning,

“Get away, ye painful night!

Come, a sunny morning!”

But the morning is an ill,

Wrong and boring comer:

I just smoke or drink some swill

On an empty stomach.

Jerks and bums in cheap saloons

Feast for no reason

It’s a paradise for goons,

But for me a prison.

In the church I hear sweet songs,

There even gold looks shabby...

Well, the church is also wrong,

It’s not such as must be!

Wheezing, up the hill I lurch,

Being tired and harried

On the top I see a birch,

And below a cherry.

Wish the hill were ivy-twined,

Then I’d be in clover;

Wish another joy I’d find

But it’s wrong all over!

I keep running on and on

Through the field with daisies

There’s a light while God is gone,

And the road that mazes.

It goes forward through the wood

Full of witches lurking

To the end where’s nothing good

But a hangman smirking.

Somewhere steeds in a slow mode

Dance without desire.

All is wrong along the road,

And the end is dire.

Nor the church nor the saloon

None of things is holy!

All is wrong beneath the moon,

Wrong and quite appalling!


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