Vladimir Vysotsky. The Abortive Flifht.

The Abortive Flight.

Someone spotted a fruit that was green, that was green,
Gave the tree a good shake and it fell, and it fell...
Here’s a song of a guy who didn’t sing, who didn’t sing,
And didn’t know that his voice was quite swell, was quite swell.

Never was he among Fortune’s pets, Fortune’s pets,
And the chances he got were all wrong, were all wrong,
So the strings pressed by him to the frets, to the frets
Were untuned and corrupted his song.

He had some time for the note C,
And after that he stopped to sing...

His short accord was found too flat, too flat,
And no one was inspired with.
The dog barked fiercely, and the cat
Licked off the fleas, licked off the fleas...

So isn’t this story worth your smile, your smile?
While he could newer show his wit,
He got a glass of golden wine,
But hardly wet his lips with it.

He made but several steps out of doors, out of doors,
Looking for the right point to begin, to begin.
And like droplets of sweat from the pores, from the pores,
His soul did trickle out through his skin, through his skin.

He was all geared up for coming duels, coming duels,
Got his bearings and took a position, a position,
Having learnt some essential basic rules, basic rules,
He looked forward to doing his mission.

He longed to know it all to Z,
But stopped at ABC instead...

To no arrangement could he come—
The well of lore was hardly drilled,
And her, who was his only one,
Left unfulfilled, left unfulfilled!

So isn’t this story worth your smile, your smile?
While all his efforts were in vain,
To solve his knots he had no time,
And each of them unsolved remained.

Truthful was every word, this I know, this I know,
In the pure style was written what he felt.
He wrote poems to her on the snow,
It’s so sad that the snows always melt.

Those days there were snowfalls with no breaks, with no breaks,
And the freedom to write on the snow—
The small hailstones and fluffy snowflakes,
With his lips tasted he on the go.

He drove a silver-clad landau,
But got no chance to reach her door...

When running, didn’t he break confine, confine,
When flying, reached he but partway,
And Taurus, his celestial sign,
Lapped up the ice-cold Milky Way.

So isn’t this story worth your smile, your smile?
When by few seconds one falls short,
When but a single missing line
Makes flight abort, makes flight abort, makes flight abort!

So isn’t this story worth your smile? Of course,
It’s quaint for you and even me.
A flying bird, a racing horse—

By whose decree? By whose decree?


By whose decree?

1973.

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