ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS

THE WOLF HUNT (Ochota na volkov)

Vladimir Vysotsky
English words by Jørn Simen Øverli

My throat is burning, my heart is bursting
I´m still living, but only just
we´re in captivity, in captivity
running in circles, no chance for a thrust
they´re raising rifles, they have us ambushed (triggering waylaid)
the air is thick with laughter and lead
bullets flying, wolves are dying
give us shelter, or else we are dead

They´re slaughtering the pack, slashing youngsters
killing female wolves , then male and greying wolves
the hunters hollering, the beasts are howling
and there is blood in the snow and blood on every flag.

The fight is uneven, they´ve got their rifles
and know the ways of the wolves and the laws of the pack
curbing our freedom with flags of red colour (red in colour)
vampyres on our track
they´re trained to kill with snigger
we´re raised on mother´s milk as in a lair we lie
sucking from her with vigour
those red flags we´ll never run by

They´re slaughtering the wolves..........

Our paws and our jaws quick and rapid
so pack leader I need an answer from you:
why do you let us be shot at and slaughtered
forcing the tribal taboo
this lawfulness seems without ending
therefore we´re nailed to the spot
as my predestined (assigned) assassin
looms sneeringly, set (poised) for a shot

They are slaughtering the wolves ...........

I disobeyed, evaded the banners
my thirst for life grew too strong
the last thing I saw was my kinsmen
in a wolfish exuberant song
my throat is burning, my heart is bursting
still living, now making my way
away from the trap, grabbing my freedom
and the hunter is left without prey

They are slaughtering the wolves...........

CUPOLA (Kupola) Song of Russia

Vladimir Vysotsky
English words: Jørn Simen Øverli

The air is stale with thunder what will happen now
my throat contracting and my zest (joy) for life is spinning
downwards - as I look for omens, can I trust the vows
those prophetic birds of fairytales are singing

I hear Sirin, bird of gladness, and her song of lure
has trills that drills my faith out of it´s ease
Alkonost, a bird who´s brooding sorrow and pain
has a message that´s splitting my peace

Grief and joy have now begun
reverberating what´s in store
little bird of hope named Gamajun
it´s me she´s singing for

All over the universe there are bells that chime
a belfryskylined coppersign
is it sadness, is it madness, is it joy
cupolas of the russians are decked with gold
that our Maker should watch us more often

In the middel of the fairytale of this eternal land
an enigma beyond the means of man
Land of mine where people live in poverty and sham
under big blue skies with ample gifts from nature´s hand

My precious horses sink down (under) belly-deep
stuck in the mud of fat and yellow falseness
and yet they carry on so I can see
the oozing, stinking realm arise from slumber

The lunar sickle baptized me
but it makes a tricky mate
Gamajun, can I trust you hopefully ((Gamajun, I trust you hopefully...))
to give me comfort, boost my faith ((...can give me comfort, boost my faith))

I shall keep on polishing my weary (worn out) soul
until it´s reeking, until it bleeds
until it´s shining out of fury, out of joy
and I shall mend my ragged clothes with gold
that my Maker shall watch me more often

SIRIN= Mythical bird with a woman´s face and breast.
ALKONOST= Alcyone or Halcyone in greek mythology. Daughter of Aeolus. Turned into a diver by the Gods for her impertinence. Poem by ALEKSANDR BLOK: "Sirin &Alkonost. The birds of joy and sadness”.
GAMAJUN: A fabulous clairvoyant bird with a human face. Poem by A. BLOK: “Gamajun: the prophetic bird”.

I SHALL NEVER LIKE IT

Vladimir Vysotsky
English words by Jørn Simen Øverli

I always dislike a fatal finish
I never sing about it if I can choose
and I abhore the obvious irkish
time of the year I´m too jumpy to drink my booze
I never like an unbeliever
I never trust in confidence
I get the creeps from a deceiver
reading (that reads) over my shoulder for intelligence

I never liked clipped (collapsed) conversations
things should be carrried out whole-heartedly (all the way)
a shot in the back is a poor provocation
I´d rather shoot head-on, and quite openly (with no overplay)
I hate sweet-talking truthful variations,
the itch of doubt, the edge of praise
to be sucked up to in all situations
and the shattering sound of glass hitting iron raise

I also dislike the prim goody-goodies
when they enter the scene it´s time for a break
in the puddle of slander thrive all the backbiters
while honour and dignity is at stake
I never felt sad for, nor pitied the crippled
felt no mercy for people with broken wings
don´t like powerlessness and can´t stand power
but thoughts of the crucified Jesus mournfulness brings

I abhore myself when I am too yellow
to see an innocent bullied I can´t endure
that they dig in my soul while they bellow
and spit on it, I hate for sure
but the worst of it all are rings and arenas
where talent is sold for a cheap success
let everything change for the better
I won´t ever like it, nevertheless