Vladimir Vysotsky. My Gypsy Song.

A Gypsy Song.

Like a stone, hangs on my neck that melancholy damned.
Why does any word today so badly hurt and grieve me?
It because of somewhere here the Gypsies made their camp,

And they trouble my heart and soul each evening.

And the poplars sing just like the strings.

Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks!

And just like the guitar, the earth rings.

Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks!

I’ll sink down my melancholy, steal at least a night—
There are campfires in the field that give me lucid signals.
I’ll rend what impedes me and throw fragments into fire,

Only be ye, Gypsies, my assistants!

And let I drink away all my things.

Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks!

How I love when a blithe Gypsy sings.

Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks!

All what sleeps in me will be again roused with the strings,
Where all’s covered with the weeds, there will be flowers wreathing!
It doesn’t matter that I’ll be condemned by pious things,

I’ve decided not to leave you, Gypsies!

Thou noose shaltn’t reach me in the sticks!

Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks!

Ring, my song, ’midst the forests and fields!

Tinka-tinka, tinka, tinka-tinks!

1968.

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