Vladimir Vysotsky. A Sad Love Song.


IAdapted from George Tokarev’s translation by Akbar Muhammad.. She was so beautiful, so stately and so grand...

She was so beautiful, so stately and so grand,
And cleaner than the freshly fallen snow...
Her parting letter burns my heart and hand,
A lamentable truth I’ve gotten to know.

I never doubted her devotion nor asked her,
And saw her love was but a mask she wore...
This time I suffered a complete fiasco,
I hope it won’t happen anymore.

“My days are numbered,” to myself I said.
Her infidelity is torturous and ripping.
I squeezed the letter as a viper’s head
The venom of betrayal started dripping.

I’ll leave behind distress and devastation,
The wind will wipe my tears if I weep.
My horses tear faster than frustration,
The snowstorm will never sweep my prints.

With time, the pallid sky above me shrinks.
I rid myself of tokens of my woe
Of fuddling violets, dazing naked pinks,
And tears, mingled with the melting snow.

For others’ loving failures, no one cares
From now on, no tears shall I give
I’m looking for the morrow’s affairs,
Where I will win, or else why should I live?

IIAdapted from George Tokarev’s translation by Akbar Muhammad.. She was both my bliss and my pain...

She was both my bliss and my pain,
And she filled every cell of my brain.
I would see her, when being asleep,
As an Amazon, riding a steed.

What could the sensible of tiresome books mean
As I would wish to kiss her traces on the ground!
What have you lived through, my unearthly, magic queen?
What are you now and to where are you bound?

Our souls were bathing in spring,
Our heads due to fizz used to spin.
As for harms, I nor freted nor grieved,
In misfortunes I never believed.

She now looks as if she feels her near end,
It’s so outlandish that it makes me laugh through tears.
In her opinion, misfortunes do impend,
Her blood is cold and to live she simply fears.

I can’t notice good songs left to sing,
I can’t notice good dreams left to see.
Bluff and falseness are her entourage,
It appears she’s a pretty mirage.

I leave behind as past as present trusts she gave,
I tear costumes of a festive misconception.
I’ll no longer be a ghostly hopes slave,
I’ll no longer pray to idols of deception.

1968 1969.

Main Page.