Vladimir Vysotsky. What I Hate.

What I Hate.

I hate the fatal end with any reason,
Life never makes me tired, faint or blue.
I count to be unlucky any season
When I don’t sing my merry songs to you.

I loathe persons cynical and cold,
Use caution when someone shows too much glee.
I hate it when a stranger is so bold,
That reads my letters peeping over me.

It vexes me when things are half-completed,
Or when for others’ acts I feel some shame.
To shoot in the foe’s back is mean and bitter,
To shoot the foe point-blank is just the same.

It’s strange to me when people for gossips care,
Or with no reason kick up a big fuss.
I hate it when I’m stroked against the hair,
Or when I hear how iron crushes glass.

To spend the time in vanity is rotten,
I’d rather choose to rush on with no brakes.
It’s a disgrace that honor is forgotten,
And seers end their livings at the stakes.

Broken wings make upon me a faint impression,
And don’t ye call me obdurate and hard—
I hate them both, depression and aggression;
But what’s happed to the Christ does hurt my heart.

I hate myself when I become so cold,
That I can watch how innocents are hit.
I hate it when they climb into my soul,
And hate it when they try to sully it.

I hate it when true arts are turned to vending,
When Mother Nature’s riches dissipate.
And though there great changes are impending,
I’ll never fall in love with what I hate!

1969.

Main Page.